


Monarch on the Shore

by lasciel



Series: Something About Us [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 44,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/pseuds/lasciel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost immediately his expressions sobers once more, his eyes staring at something above Lavellan's shoulder. “Whenever I reach out to Tevinter, I only end up rewarded with disappointment.” Dorian swallows visibly, all but whispering, “I cannot help but wonder... is there any hope left for a reformation? Will there ever be anything worthwhile from Tevinter that will last?”</p><p>Lavellan tightens his hold on Dorian's hand, waiting until their eyes meet again. “There's you,” he says quietly, hesitantly raising one corner of his mouth.</p><p>The deep lines on Dorian's face soften.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [aphelion_orion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion_orion/pseuds/aphelion_orion). There are not enough words in this world to properly express my gratitude for your invaluable help and support.
> 
> I apologise for taking so long with this one. It was supposed to be 'short & sweet', but as you can probably see from the wordcount and tags, that didn't *quite* work out as planned. Thank you, for sticking with me, and I hope that this will be worth your time and wait!
> 
> (Timeline-wise, this is set right after the previous one, 'Oracle & a Conclusion'.)

Lavellan knows that he's overdone his training today even before he reaches the stairs leading up to his quarters.

When the sole of his foot hits the first step, he groans silently, and his right leg almost gives out underneath his weight. He's not sure how he's supposed to make it all the way up to his rooms like this.

 _That's what you get for pushing your body all day, after spending over two months in bed_ , Lavellan scolds himself, pushing his protesting legs up onto the next step.

Cassandra's voice ring in his ears: “It will take time and training to regain your strength, Lavellan. It is only natural.”

He scoffs at the words, just like he did this morning. 

What good is he if he cannot even lift his weapon? Who is he supposed to protect like this, much less save?

Lavellan sighs.

The wooden stairs are rough under his naked feet, but he doesn't mind, even though he would prefer the familiar feeling of moss or earth right now.

He has always loved to feel nature on his naked shin, the give of the ground, the slight stickiness of grass after rainfall. He remembers getting cuts and scratches, wearing them with pride, even when they unavoidably got infected.

Lavellan reaches the first landing and lets himself slide down against the stone wall. It's an awkward movement, and he feels as if he's made of stone, stiff and unresponsive, but once he's settled on to wood, the ache calms a bit.

He closes his eyes, and the wrinkly face of his old mentor Raj flashes in front of his eyes.

Would old Raj scold him for acting like a foolish young hunter again? Or would he be too amused by Lavellan — of all people — getting roped into leading a human force like the Inquisition?

The next memory, and the wrinkly face flushes. Lavellan smiles slightly, still amused by how Raj looked in anger, with his red head and his white hair. Always irritated with Lavellan for being so careless and reckless, for insisting on walking barefoot even through thick underbrush.

Lavellan wriggles his toes on the wood. 

Laughter from the main hall reaches him, loud, compared to the muted conversations he's able to hear.

He remembers the fever that had taken him, when he managed to get Deathroot into one of his cuts. Almost dying, because he was so sure that a good hunter didn't need to wear shoes.

He has not ignored Raj's lectures since that day, and he could probably use some stern words again right now.

Lavellan feels strange, off-kilter, and only his naked feet on the ground seem to centre him. 

Everything reminds him of the weeks that he has lost, and it's not only his aching muscles, tiring on him far too quickly, no matter how light his training.

He opens his eyes again, looking down at himself. The dim lighting isn't doing his body any favours, but at least his clothing doesn't awkwardly hang off of him anymore, after somebody got around to fixing them for him.

 _Old Raj would probably take one look at me, and know that I'm hanging on by the edge of my teeth_ , Lavellan thinks grimly.

A shiver works itself up his back, a shiver that has little to do with the temperature inside Skyhold's walls — weirdly comfortable, even in such a secluded corner.

Tomorrow, he'll be joining the others at the war table again. It will be the first time since he has awoken.

Lavellan breathes in deeply and stands up on shaky legs, angry at his useless body.

Whatever distraction his training had given him, he has lost it again, and wallowing in memories is nothing but avoiding the real issue.

The realisation doesn't make climbing the remaining steps any easier, but at least this time he did not lose himself too deeply in self-pity, didn't lose hours of his life to it.

Still, he sighs in relief when he reaches the balustrade leading into his quarters.

At the top, Lavellan stops abruptly, blinking. _Where did all these bookshelves come from?_ he asks himself, frowning at previously blank walls now lined with them.

His eyes land on Dorian standing by the left set of glass doors leading out onto the balcony, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. 

It clicks then, and he doesn't know if he wants to cry or laugh at himself, for forgetting.

These are not only his quarters anymore.

They are theirs.

A familiar warm tingle spreads in his stomach, and he places his arms on the stone balustrade, resting his head on top of them.

Dorian hasn't noticed him yet, apparently deep in thought, tracing over the pages of the dark book in his hands.

Lavellan smiles slightly, but it is not an entirely happy feeling that is washing over him.

This is another thing that seems... unreal. Dorian and him, sharing quarters.

It's not like he has never thought about it before. To himself, Lavellan can even admit that he has had fantasies about asking Dorian to move in with him. About making it a bit romantic, about asking Cassandra or Josephine for some advice.

Dorian sighs. There are deep lines at the edges of his mouth, and on his forehead. He lifts his head, his gaze directed outside the glass door he's leaning against.

Lavellan doubts that he's enjoying the view.

But then, neither is he, if he's being honest, and a well-known sense of helplessness settles over him.

It almost feels like something was stolen from him. Something that he can't ever get back, not through training, and not through food.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes fixed on Dorian's profile.

Of course, he could ask Dorian to move out again, just to ask him in the next breath to move in with him. Again.

The idea has a lot of appeal, and Lavellan enjoys the small glimmer of excitement in his chest, though it dims quickly again.

He frowns. Dorian is far too fragile for this. It's nothing Lavellan can even pinpoint, just a general sense of... difference. 

Another heavy sigh, as if Dorian is trying to prove him right.

 _The others are probably putting it down to Dorian staying away from alcohol_ , he thinks, scratching at his left elbow, ignoring his legs' demands for some rest.

But it is more than that. Dorian has been trying to hide it, but whenever Lavellan's upper arms are bare, sooner or later his eyes seem fixated on the frostbite scar that now dominates the skin of the left one.

It seems like Lavellan is not the only one struggling with the Despair Demon's victory over him.

Almost on his own, the fingers of his right hand move over the now covered patch of skin, tracing over the rough edges of it, even now able to be felt through the thin material hiding it. _It's just a scar_ , he thinks to himself. _Another one of many. A reminder of the life that I'm leading._

He grimaces slightly, closing his eyes for a breath.

It's not a scar like the others. 

It's not one that he can be proud of, one whose origins he wants to recall.

That he was stupid enough to fall for something so simple as a Despair Demon's magic, something every elven child is warned about as soon as the Clan is close enough to a human settlement to make accidental contact with them a possibility.

Lavellan resists the ridiculous urge to hug himself against the sudden chill washing over him.

A Despair Demon's miasma sucks up your hope, like the sun does to water during a drought. It's a creature that haunts ugly places, alienages and human slums, turns them even more dreadful.

He _knows_ all of this, has known it since he has been old enough to wield a weapon, and still he almost died because he fell for its tricks. 

Lavellan's nails dig into the material covering the frostbite when he remembers how the Despair Demon had taunted him with Dorian's voice inside of his head.

_”I'm going back to Tevinter.”_

_”Goodbye, and I sincerely hope we won't be seeing each other ever again, Inquisitor.”_

_”I truly wish we had never met.”_

He swallows, inhaling deeply.

Dorian is right _here_ , only a few steps away.

In their quarters, filled with so many books, Lavellan has to wonder where Dorian had stored them before.

He smiles, and his fingers relax.

There are no more hidden bottles inside of these rooms. 

Warmth floods him, when he remembers that Dorian had tended to him for so long, that Dorian is trying, for the both of them, to stay away from alcohol's poisonous influence.

Dorian's head lowers again, his fingers tracing over a site in the book he's holding.

Lavellan decides that he has looked long enough, and on a whim, sneaks up on Dorian, bare feet moving over stone and carpet without even the whisper of a sound. At least that is something his weakened body can still do.

He embraces Dorian from behind, raising up onto his toes. His hands come to rest on Dorian's hips, his chin on Dorian's shoulder, and he manages to catch a quick look at the open pages.

His own crude writing glares back at him, and Lavellan blinks, making a confused sound.

Snapping the book shut, Dorian turns to face him, his eyes wide, as if Lavellan has caught him doing something that he's ashamed of.

It's the stupid Antivan book about vices, Lavellan realises, the beginnings of a frown creasing his forehead. 

There's an awkward silence between them while Dorian fumbles with the complicated contraption hanging over his backside, until the locks of it click shut, and the book is safely put away.

Only now does Dorian relax, smiling warmly, a friendly expression masking the uneasiness still visible in his eyes. He takes Lavellan's hands and places them back on his hips, his own falling heavily onto Lavellan's ass. 

Lavellan tilts his head in reaction, raising an eyebrow. Suddenly, the ache of his muscles seems far less insistent. His left hand slowly inches upwards until it stays high on Dorian's chest.

 _How long has Dorian been carrying this thing around with him?_ Lavellan cannot help but ask himself. _And why?_

Dorian smirks — thankfully ignorant to Lavellan's thoughts — moving the both of them backwards until Dorian's back thuds against the glass window, pressing them even closer together.

Absently, Lavellan wonders if the edges of the Antivan book are now digging into Dorian's skin, though there is no discomfort to see on his face.

Despite the lingering surprise and confusion, the deep purr of Dorian's voice still manages to make Lavellan's toes curl on the solid stone underneath them. “Well, hello there, my dear Inquisitor. I didn't hear you enter.”

Lavellan only hums in answer, smiling. He can feel his raised eyebrow climb even higher. 

Dorian shakes his head, snorting softly. He grips Lavellan's left upper leg, lifting and moving it until it comes to rest against Dorian's hip, Lavellan's knee against the glass window behind him.

The chill of it travels quickly through the thin material of his trousers, and he shivers, making Dorian chuckle deeply in reaction.

Lavellan growls, poking him in the chest.

Dorian is not cowed — instead his grin widens. The hand on Lavellan's leg wanders, slow and teasing, and Lavellan presses himself against him even closer.

Skilful fingers trace over the muscles of his upper leg, then scratch slightly over the side of his knee. 

Lavellan's eyelids lower, and he stares into Dorian's darkening eyes, their breathing slow and deep, in synch. The fingers reach his trembling calf, the strain the position is putting on it obvious, but Dorian doesn't comment on it. He leans forward slightly, leaving Lavellan to look at the naked skin of his collarbone. 

And then the fingers circle around the naked sole of his foot, and Lavellan's breath hitches in his chest.

“If you refuse to wear shoes like a civilised person,” Dorian tells him, voice low and hot in Lavellan's ear, “then you leave me no other choice but to put bells on you very soon.” He shakes the foot in his grasp once, to make his point.

Lavellan laughs, loud and heartfelt, and he presses his lips against the tempting stretch of skin where Dorian's collarbone and throat meet.

He can take a hint, when he wants to. So Lavellan doesn't ask Dorian, why he is carrying that stupid book around with him, considering the little good it did them.

After a moment, Dorian hums, satisfied. He lets go of Lavellan's foot, gently lowering his tense leg. 

They look at each other for a moment then, and Lavellan almost sighs.

The tense lines on Dorian's face tell him that he still expects curious prodding about the book — he'll probably have to prove to Dorian that his distraction has worked, and that he'll be safe from Lavellan's questions for a while longer.

He rises up onto his toes, pressing a dry, firm kiss to Dorian's lips.

Against Lavellan's mouth, the corners of Dorian's curl upwards. 

“I'd like to see you try,” Lavellan whispers into the air between them, his thumbs stroking over Dorian's hips.

The tension leaves Dorian almost immediately, and the lines at his eyes soften.

They separate, and Dorian gently tugs at him until Lavellan follows him over to their bed.

Seeing Lavellan's expectant expression, Dorian laughs, shaking his head.

“Undress and lie down,” he orders, sounding almost disgustingly amused. “I'm going to give your tired limbs an oil massage that will have all of Thedas gasp out in outrage and envy.”

He turns around then, heading for the bathroom.

Lavellan undoes the first button of his vest, smiling to himself. “Promises, promises!” he calls after Dorian, and is rewarded with a deep chuckle.

For some reason, that makes his fingers work even quicker. Undressed completely, he lets himself fall onto their bed, listening to Dorian searching around in the next room.

Lavellan tilts his head to the side, looking at the carvings on the headboard.

He has already forgotten where their new bed is from, hadn't really cared when Dorian told him proudly about the one that he had chosen for them.

Dorian likes its 'subtle but stunning' carvings. 

And Lavellan likes the gleam in Dorian's eyes, satisfaction and something else, something deeper, whenever he looks at it, thinking that Lavellan isn't paying attention.

 _But I do miss hearing him complain about the 'Orlesian monstrosity'_ , Lavellan admits to himself with a rueful smile.

A sound of triumph, followed by Dorian appearing in the corners of his eyes again. The large jar of oil and towel in his hands bring Lavellan back into the present instantly.

There's that's deeply pleased smile on Dorian's lips again, when he looks at Lavellan spread out over the bed that he has chosen. A familiar glint in Dorian's eyes, and he hums, a low but cheerful melody, stopping far too quickly for Lavellan's taste.

When Dorian comes to stand next to the bed, their eyes meet, and the smile widens even further.

Anticipation curls low and hot in Lavellan's stomach.

He really appreciates having his silence repaid like this.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan can't believe Dorian's bold and clever fingers made him fall asleep so deeply and completely that he will be late to the meeting with his advisors.

The stone floor is cool under his feet, but not cold enough for it to be uncomfortable.

At least it's still early enough so that he doesn't have to worry about rushing past too many people.

He passes Josephine's desk — already empty, of course — and his muscles begin to twinge again, waking up from the fantastic lull Dorian's fingers had massaged into them last night.

The door separating Josephine's office from the hall leading to the war room falls shut behind him, and he frowns.

Has this hallway always been this dark and gloomy?

He shakes his head at himself, and takes a few steps forward, enough to be out of the dim light of the torches on the walls, and in the sunlight shining through the crumbled wall on his right.

It's ridiculous, how much the Despair Demon's magic is still affecting him even now, even this early.

He takes another step, stopping at the far edge of the pool of sunlight. Lavellan moves up onto his toes, biting the inside of his cheek.

Of course, the others have asked him if he remembers anything about being unconscious for so long.

Lavellan's answer has always been the same: “I don't. There was only darkness.”

It's a half truth. He moves onto the balls of his feet.

Or maybe a half-half truth.

He _does_ remember, and there was darkness.

Only more. 

All the doubts he has ever had, about himself and others. Everything that he has lost, and everything that he could still lose. All the people that have died because of him, and all the deaths that could still happen if he makes one wrong decision. 

All of that, an inescapable swirl of blackness, and he is caught in the middle of it.

He has nightmares about being back there, trapped inside of his own head.

And even once he has struggled free of them, even when he has already opened his eyes, Lavellan is never sure that he has escaped the dark clutches, that he really is awake. 

That he is not alone, abandoned. 

His sleep-clothing and the blanket are always equally clammy by then, sticking to his body, and it takes far too many hours for his heart to stop beating wildly inside of his chest.

Lavellan knows that Dorian worries, that he sometimes isn't quiet enough when he struggles free of the dreams, and ends up waking Dorian.

But Dorian hasn't asked him again, after the first time.

Lavellan traces the edges of the ring of sunlight he's standing in with his toes.

Then he scowls at himself, before stepping over the circle of sunlight and back into the dimness of the hall.

He manages to move up to the door leading into the war room, and stops again, shivering.

Lavellan turns around quickly, his steps taking him back to the pool of sunlight, only to turn around yet again.

Six heavy steps to the door, six easier steps away from it, gaze always fixed outside the crumbled wall or at his bare feet.

Not at the door. Definitely not thinking about what might await him behind it, what he has tried so hard not to think about yesterday.

Lavellan comes to stand before the hole in the wall again. This time, he looks at the mountains, the rising sun reflecting on the white snow. 

Thankfully, there is nobody out here to witness the Inquisitor making a fool of himself.

If they even still care. If they even still think of him as their Inquisitor.

He sucks in a deep breath, fingers flexing at his sides.

Everybody has been so _nice_ to him since he woke up, visiting and entertaining him when he was still bedridden, giving him encouraging comments when he passes them in the halls. And then, of course, there is Dorian, and his obvious attempts at making Lavellan spend time with the others, as if he wouldn't notice the obvious set-ups, the deliberately casual nudges in their direction.

Wherever Lavellan goes there are eyes on him now, some more obvious than others in their observation of him. It makes the skin on his neck itch, this level of attention, and just when he thinks he will finally have some peace and quiet, there is already somebody approaching him with random questions or simple, unimportant matters that they suddenly want his opinion of.

They've never sought him out like this before, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, and even Vivienne, and their careful words, their guarded stances make him want to lash out or to run away.

 _They are all in on it_ , Lavellan concludes with a jerky nod of his head. _They have all realised that they won't stand a chance against Corypheus with me as their leader, that I'm weak and a coward_.

He glances sideways.

Behind the large wooden door, his advisors are waiting to tell him of their decision to name somebody else their Inquisitor, he's sure of it.

He presses his sweaty palms onto his trousers, leaves them there. At least he will get to tell Cassandra 'I told you so'. 

But how is this going to work, after? The new Inquisitor will lead, and Lavellan will be the pathetic tag-along, always waiting for the signal to close the Rifts?

Lavellan moves the centre of his weight onto his toes, and his fingers dig into the material of his trousers.

Solas has been even more short-spoken around him than before. Maybe he's figured out how the Anchor works now, and is already working on a new one. Lavellan has no idea if that is even possible, but it's the only logical explanation: They are going to separate the Anchor from him, and then he'll be dispensable for good.

The next breath shudders out of him, and it becomes more difficult to hold his balance.

First the Keeper and his clan, now the Inquisition. He'll be rootless once more.

Another thought follows, and he stumbles, holding himself upright against the crumbled wall, fingers digging into the unyielding stone hard enough to hurt.

It's nothing compared to the dull pain in his muscles, the stinging in his chest. _Dorian will not come with me, when they expel me. I can't ask him to — this is far too important for him._

He should have woken Dorian up this morning, thanked him for the message, for tending to him, for moving in with him, for... everything.

Because Dorian will stay here, in Skyhold, to fight for what he believes in, and then they will see each other every few months. 

If at all.

And very soon Dorian will realise that he deserves someone better, someone smarter. Someone who will not fall prey to a Despair Demon's miasma so easily.

Lavellan presses his forehead against the cold stone in front of him, unable to continue that thought. He's a crude slab of iron that has turned brittle at the edges, and is now slowly crumbling away.

He glances outside again, staring at the towering mountains just ahead of him, the golden light of the rising sun almost blinding.

Lavellan takes a deep breath, savouring the clean and fresh air. 

It leaves him feel small and unimportant, a part of something bigger, something he cannot even begin to realise.

He smiles grimly, shaking his head at himself.

Look at him, falling right back into the miasma's trap. 

It's almost laughable. He tried not to wonder about being cast away, tried to avoid thinking about it — and ended up lost again inside of his own head.

The sun has now risen above the mountains, and its brightness seems to have swallowed the white tips of them. He blinks against the intensity of it, looking down at himself. The light almost reaches up to his stomach now, powerful and warm. 

Tension leaves his body, and he realises the horrible injustice that he's doing to Dorian — and to the others as well. He hates being like this, so unsure and full of doubt about everyone, and himself especially.

 _If I don't join them soon, they'll think I got lost in Skyhold's walls again_ , Lavellan thinks, mouth twitching into a weak smile. _Even though that only happened once_. It's not his fault that Skyhold's hallways all look the same, that the stones aren't as easy to read as trees and bushes.

He moves towards the door again, placing both hands against the wood, and a tremble travels through him.

How long will he last before his legs will begin to shake from holding his weight for hours, before the shiver will have moved up to his arms, making it painfully obvious to them just how weak—

He breathes in again, and enters.

His three advisors are seated on comfortable looking chairs around the war table, and there's an empty one where Lavellan usually stands, slightly more opulent than the others.

The door falls shut behind him, but Lavellan doesn't move closer, blinking at the picture in front of him in confusion.

They stand up almost in unison, and Cullen beckons him closer, his voice warm when he says, “Inquisitor, it is good that you are back with us.”

They smile at him, and Lavellan exhales the breath that he has been holding. He joins them at the table, wonderingly tracing over the Inquisition-symbol etched into the high-stretching back of the empty wooden chair. Lavellan tilts his head slightly, looking at Cullen.

“Oh, we moved these in here a while ago,” Cullen answers immediately. He coughs into his fist then, and his other hand scratches the back of his head. “We were arguing for hours at an end, and that grew tiresome rather quickly,” he says, words falling from his mouth quicker towards the end.

Lavellan's eyes travel over his other advisors.

The gentle smile has not left Josephine's lips, and Leliana's face is a blank slate, apart from a slight upwards tilt to the right corner of her mouth.

Cullen is not meeting his eyes, gaze directed downwards and to the left. 

_He really needs to try to get better at hiding his tells,_ Lavellan thinks fondly, and warmth floods him. He accepts the blatant lie with an easy smile of his own, sitting down onto his chair, gesturing to the others to do the same.

“It's about time I'm back, then,” he tells Cullen, and finally he looks back at Lavellan, relaxing slightly. 

Lavellan turns to the right. “Nice choice of furniture.”

Josephine nods her head at him in acknowledgement, her smile deepening. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan places his hands on the war table before him, feeling the solid wood under his palms. His smile turns into a smirk. “I'm actually surprised you three haven't destroyed the table yet. I was sure you would have, when you went at each others' throat in frustration.”

Cullen laughs, a deep, pleasant sound, his body almost shaking with it. “Well, I'm pretty sure Leliana has had many detailed fantasies about pinning me to it with her knives.”

“That is a lie,” snaps Leliana, and her eyes narrow.

Cullen stops laughing, looking slightly nervous. 

Lavellan tenses in sympathy.

Then Leliana grins, a sharp, beautiful cut of her lips. “I would never blemish the war table like that. Josy would be very cross with me, if I did.”

Josephine, already scribbling diligently on her writing board, nods absently.

Leliana raises an eyebrow. “After all, a dagger to the throat is much more efficient.”

Silence.

Then Josephine begins to laugh, shaking her head at them. 

Leliana's smile changes immediately, losing its edge.

Cullen and Lavellan share a meaningful — and slightly pained — look, before joining in on their amusement.

Lavellan would never say that he has missed this, deciding the fates and lives of people without ever coming face to face with them. That is not in his nature, not who he is, and it never will. 

But it is easier now to talk with his advisers, to discuss the options they have, and to question their suggestions, until they almost come to agree on an approach.

He will never enjoy being a leader, to have this amount of power and responsibility. 

But this will have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

The wind is wonderfully cool on his sweaty skin, though it doesn't soothe the burn in his legs and lungs.

Lavellan's head is blissfully empty, as it always is during physical exercise. No doubts, no self-loathing – only his body pushing itself to follow his commands, as it should be.

He's smiling when he passes through the next tower on Skyhold's rampart, and one of the Inquisition soldiers on watch duty merely nods at him as he runs by, already familiar with his daily routine and appearance up here.

”Why did I ever agree to this nonsensical torture?” Dorian demands to know from behind him, voice breathless.

The smile turns into a grin, and another feeling expands his chest, joining the joy of exercise already spread far and wide in it. He reaches the watchtower Cullen has claimed for his own, pleased to see that its doors have been opened for him as well. Lavellan waves at Cullen as he passes by his desk, and almost considers slowing down slightly, just so he can see him do a double-take when he notices that Lavellan is not on his own this time.

He doesn't, though, and once he is outside again he allows his grin to turn mischievous, safe in the knowledge that Dorian will not be able to see it. “I think your exact words were—” he calls, trying to mimic the accent of the nobles always idling around, “'What a marvellous idea! I have been getting rather chubby around the middle as of late'.”

He has the pleasure of hearing Dorian stumble behind him, followed by an indignant noise. “I never said that!” 

Lavellan hears Dorian lengthening his strides, and he makes sure not to be caught. Laughter bubbles inside of his throat, but he swallows it, pressing his smiling lips together. It's difficult enough to stay ahead as it is, with the burn already turning into a tremble, with the haziness at the edge of his vision.

“And disregarding that, this is slander of the most horrific kind!” Dorian shouts, followed by loud huffs for air.

“Oh!” Lavellan presses out, pretending to be surprised. He allows himself a quick look behind himself, and into Dorian's flustered face. “Somebody else must have said that about you, then!”

Another enraged sound. “ _You_ —!” followed by speechless stuttering.

Lavellan tries to go on, but gasped laughter finally forces him to stop running, and he leans against the balustrade framing Skyhold's walls for support. He has one arm around his heaving stomach, trying to suck air into his burning chest, when Dorian comes to stand next to him.

He's just as breathless, the comfortable yet still typically fashionable shirt and trousers dark with sweat, clinging flatteringly to the body hidden underneath it.

Lavellan's blinking eyes trail up slowly to Dorian's flushed face, noting his dishevelled head and moustache, hairs sticking whichever way they please. But the most striking thing are his darkened eyes, promising merciless revenge.

Suddenly Lavellan is breathless for an entirely different reason.

Dorian glowers at him for a moment longer before groaning, leaning back next to Lavellan. His eyes keep darting to their left and right, checking their surroundings out of pure habit.

Lavellan almost tells him that it's still far too early for any wandering civilians to find their way up here, that he made sure to stop away far enough from the next soldier on watch.

He decides to remain silent, to simply enjoy the view of Dorian — flushed face and gleaming arms — in the first rays of sunlight that are only just now finding their ways through the white mountains protecting Skyhold. Dorian's lips open slightly, a tongue sneaking out to wet them. 

Inside of his chest, Lavellan's heartbeat flutters, like the unsure movement of a small bird taking flight for the first time.

Dorian sighs, turning his attention back to Lavellan with a small smile curling his lips. “You lasted longer than I would have thought,” he says, mirth making his eyes dance, and the fine lines at their corners deepen.

Lavellan shakes himself, and hums. He stretches onto his toes, raising his arms up over his head. “Funny,” he answers eventually, lazily, once he's sure that he has gotten rid of the worst kinks in the muscles of his shoulders. He tilts his head at Dorian, noticing the interest in his eyes. 

Lavellan smirks, his voice sweet when he says, “I just wanted to say the same thing to you.”

Dorian groans again, shaking his head. “I did walk right into this one, didn't I?” he muses, and the smile on his lips softens.

And just like that he steals Lavellan's breath away once again, without even trying to, without even noticing it. 

Lavellan wants to kiss the teasing curl of his mouth, wants to lick at the gentle lines at the corners of his eyes, over the dimples on his cheeks. To run his fingers through the dark, tousled hair until Dorian bats his hands away with exaggerated annoyance.

Some of his thoughts must have been written clearly on his face, because Dorian chuckles. He moves away from the balustrade, his voice thoughtful. “Where do you go when you are done with your daily torture routine, and want to hide from your responsibilities for a while longer?”

He tilts his head at Dorian again, stretching onto his toes, a questioning sound in the back of his throat.

Dorian chuckles quietly, knocking the back of his fist against Lavellan's chest once, forcing him back onto the soles of his feet. He sounds amused when he says, “Don't pretend that you have no idea what I mean.” He raises an eyebrow at Lavellan, a fond look on his face. “Do you even know how often your advisors or any other person in Skyhold who deems themselves worthy of your attention has bothered me about your whereabouts? The least you can do — to repay my troubles as your ostensibly assigned custodian — is to share that secret oasis of loafing about with me.”

Lavellan snickers and receives a huff in return. He nods then, bowing low to Dorian. “Of course, it would be my pleasure,” he declares with a flourish, and Dorian rewards his antics with a deep chuckle.

Straightening himself again, Lavellan takes Dorian's hand before he can second-guess himself.

When the hand isn't immediately withdrawn from his hold again, the smile threatens to take over his entire face. He tugs gently, and Dorian follows him towards the stairs leading down the balustrade close by. A tingle is spreading from their joined hands, up to his chest, replacing the joy of exercise with something warm and heavy, something like wonder. It makes his head buzz with the intensity of it.

Once they've reached the first step, Lavellan makes a thoughtful sound, grinning now. “Does that mean that I get to call you my personal warden from now on?”

“Far be it from me to be a spoilsport, amatus, but I think that particular brand of pet names is best kept hidden behind closed doors, and under fluttering sheets,” Dorian says smoothly from behind him, and Lavellan almost stumbles over his own two feet.

When he's rightened himself again with Dorian's help, they stare at each in surprise.

After the moment of shock has passed, they both chuckle, careful now, while they descend the remaining steps.

 _Wouldn't want to be entrusted to a new caretaker just because of a stupid misstep, after all_ , he thinks wryly, enjoying the satisfying ache of exercise, and the warmth of Dorian's hand in his.

Lavellan can't remember when he last felt this calm, at peace with himself and the world.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I can't pretend to be awfully impressed by your sanctuary,” Dorian says with a frown, eyeing the corner Lavellan is leading him to with scepticism.

Lavellan snorts quietly, not surprised at all. 

To their right is Skyhold's outer rampart, towering above them, and in front of them the smaller wall of Skyhold's castle. There's a single tree here, surrounded by mostly undisturbed grass. It's a removed corner, away from most of the hustle and bustle that reigns over Skyhold every day.

Lavellan lets go of Dorian's hand once they reach the tree, letting himself tumble backwards onto the soft grass with a content sound, his eyes falling shut.

From the slant of the shadows, it'll be some time before anyone expects them. 

Dorian makes a sound of dismay. “Really, you are just lying down on the grass? You don't even keep a blanket around here?” he asks, one of his feet kicking at the ground.

“Of course, my Lord,” Lavellan drawls, his pleasantly twingeing body making him feel mellow. “I'll get them for you right away, my Lord.”

Very pointedly, he doesn't move a single muscle.

After a moment, Dorian sniffs, before moving closer and sitting down next to him.

Lavellan tries not to smile when he hears Dorian shift with exaggerated care, no doubt a theatrical pout on his lips. 

A small groan. “I actually cannot believe that I'm doing this,” Dorian grumbles, his clothing rustling, finally lying down.

Opening his eyes again, Lavellan rewards his spirit for adventure by rolling halfway on top of him, and Dorian exhales softly, one of his eyebrows raised.

He grins at Dorian completely unapologetically, his elbows digging into the ground on either side of him, hands crossed over Dorian's chest.

“Thanks for coming along,” he murmurs, still surprised and pleased that Dorian even suggested it in the first place.

Dorian smiles, the fine lines at his eyes returning. He moves one of his arms behind his back, propping his head up slightly while his other hand comes to rest on Lavellan's right side. “It was certainly...” Dorian pauses, expression turning thoughtful. “...an experience,” he finishes, with a flash of teeth.

Lavellan chuckles quietly, resting his head on Dorian's left shoulder.

He can feel the sun moving over his legs, warming them, and wonders how long Dorian will be able to stand to be so sweaty and unpresentable.

“Cole approached me yesterday,” Lavellan says eventually.

Under him, Dorian hums. “Oh? What did he say?”

Lavellan raises an eyebrow at his unsurprised reaction. “He asked me if I agreed with what you had said.” He moves his head back up, looking at Dorian closely.

Open curiosity in Dorian's eyes, a hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth. “And what did you answer?”

“Well,” Lavellan says slowly, the raised eyebrow climbing even higher. “Until I heard about you agreeing to help Sera, and something very worrying about bees and flames, I felt very safe in saying that I agree with you.”

A muffled chuckle vibrates in Dorian's chest, his eyes practically gleaming now.

Choosing to ignore Dorian's involvement in Sera's jokes for now, he taps Dorian's chest with one finger. “Cole seemed very unhappy with my answer,” he says quietly, and the mirth leaves Dorian's eyes and mouth.

Lavellan is almost sorry to see it go, but he hates not knowing what is going on around him, hates having missed so much. Something unpleasant stirs low in his stomach, and he desperately tries to hold on to the feeling of peace.

Dorian sighs, Lavellan's chest resonating with the sound of it. “I told him to ask for consent before he tries to... fix people again,” he says quietly, the hand on Lavellan's hip stroking up and down slowly, almost absently.

Deeps lines have claimed Dorian's forehead, not at all like the soft ones that decorated the corners of his eyes earlier. Lavellan tilts his head slightly, waiting.

There is a force behind Dorian's words when he continues, “He was trying to fix _us_ , when we...” He swallows, looking away for a breath. “...when we were apart.” His voice trails off then, and Lavellan makes a soothing sound, touching one of his hands to Dorian's pained face. Already he regrets having asked at all, but...

They could have lost every memory of each other, of their time together. Lavellan can barely comprehend the thought. And it's his own fault for leaving this situation alone for so long. He was so sure in his reasoning, thinking that if Cole wanted to help, why shouldn't he be allowed to use his powers?

He nods, and Dorian swallows, attempting a weak smile. “And now that you have learned of my dark pact with Sera, what do you think of your answer?” he asks, effectively changing the subject.

Lavellan moves the hand away from his face. He places it on Dorian's chest again, close to his other one, showing him a real smile, and Dorian relaxes slightly. “Now, I'm not so sure of your judgement anymore,” Lavellan says in a grave tone, and with a very serious nod.

Dorian chuckles, a wonderful vibration against Lavellan's palms.

“I knew that you would make a better responsible parent than me.” Dorian nods, satisfied, and Lavellan blinks at him in utter confusion.

It only makes Dorian chuckle harder. “Forgot that I said anything, it isn't important,” he says, when Lavellan starts scowling at him. “I'm sure this inelegant exercise has upset my inner balance greatly.”

Maybe Lavellan doesn't want to know about _everything_ that has happened while he was out of it, after all. Still, Lavellan is all too aware of the restless thing in his stomach, how it is slowly but surely eating away at the calm he's feeling.

Probably noticing that Lavellan isn't happy about the turn their conversation has taken, Dorian pats his hip. “Did you go to meet with Blackwall yesterday?”

Lavellan narrows his eyes at him, and there is a small twitch to Dorian's mouth that probably means that he is sorely regretting his choice of their next topic now.

“I did, funny, that you should mention it,” Lavellan says in a tone that is anything but amused.

Dorian's words are hasty now. “What did you two end up doing?” 

“We talked about Griffons,” Lavellan says drily, enjoying Dorian's groan.

“That seems to be all you two ever talk about,” he complains, with a roll of his eyes.

Lavellan shrugs, though he remains watchful of every twitch, of every change to Dorian's face.

“That's not a proper basis for anything!” Dorian frowns, heedless of Lavellan's raised eyebrow at his choice of words. “Why don't you ask him about his woodcarvings, take it up yourself for all I care?” 

Despite the wariness now firmly settled into the back of his head, Lavellan has to stifle a laugh, keeping his face serious. “Maybe I'll do that.”

Dorian pauses. Then a hand cups the back of Lavellan's head, and fingers scratch at the nape of the neck. 

A pleasant shudder travels through Lavellan's body.

“Don't you dare pick up woodcarving as a hobby. I'll kick you out at the first sign of wood chippings anywhere,” Dorian says quietly.

Lavellan tilts his head slightly, looking at him with wide eyes. “I'm pretty sure that you can't kick the Inquisitor out of his own quarters,” he murmurs, trying to keep the laughter safely tucked away deep in his chest.

The fingers grip at his hair, pulling him closer until there's barely any space left between their faces. Dorian promises, low and dark, “Watch me.” 

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are back, dimples on his cheeks, ruining his effort at being menacing.

The laughter finally frees itself from Lavellan's chest, and Dorian huffs, letting go of Lavellan's shaking head so that he can rest it on Dorian's shoulder again, press the sounds of it into the material of his clothing. Maybe it's not too late yet, to get back the sense of calm from before. His laughter quiets down, and Lavellan inhales deeply, the smell of grass and sweat filling his chest. They are here, together, they are okay—

Dorian rests his fingers on Lavellan's neck. His voice is quiet and rough when he says, “Only when you were wasting away in front my eyes did I realise how selfish I had been, when it comes to your affections.”

It's like a well-aimed punch to the stomach, destroying the pretty illusion Lavellan is trying to cover reality with. Peace and calmness fall away through his fumbling fingers, and his chest burns with the loss of it. Ears twitching, Lavellan looks up at Dorian, noticing the rueful downwards tilt to his lips. He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat.

The beginnings of a small smile, fingers gentle on Lavellan's head. “My faults will never again become your downfall,” Dorian says, and it's a promise, a vow almost, conviction visible in the deep lines on his face. 

Lavellan swallows, averting his eyes to escape Dorian's intense stare. He lowers his head onto the shoulder underneath him again, trying to think. It's difficult, between the familiar, ugly blackness lurking in the back of his head, and the churning in his stomach. “Is that why you sent me Blackwall's way, and told him that I was curious about his newest carvings?” he asks the green, lush grass next to them. This isn't how he wanted to confront Dorian about his weird behaviour, but he might as well get it over with.

A hum vibrates in the chest under his palms. “Honestly, I was certain that you two would merely grunt in acknowledgement of each others presence, and then turn your attention to that vulgar hobby of his,” comes the amused reply.

Lavellan tenses, frowning at the jovial answer. So Dorian really is trying to push him away after all, despite what they've been through—

Dorian's nails scratch over his scalp, distracting Lavellan from his thoughts. “While it pains me to say so, you have gathered great individuals around you.” He sighs, voice softening, and his hand wanders to Lavellan's neck. “I think you will profit immensely if you take the time to get to know them.”

Could that really be all to it? Lavellan bites his tongue hard enough to hurt, trying to get himself away from the cliff he's standing at, from the black swirl inside of his head. He inhales deeply, concentrating on the smell of Dorian's sweat, on the evenness of his breathing. Lavellan's left hand clutches at Dorian's waistband. “If the next words out of your mouth are 'we should start seeing other people', you are going to regret it,” he mumbles, trying to hide his unease with what he hopes is a joke, the fingers of his other hand digging into the grass next to them.

Dorian inhales, a surprised sound. His hand moves away from Lavellan's head, poking him in the side. 

Lavellan barely twitches, his body frozen. He stays like this, tense, refusing to look up. What will he do if that is not a joke but exactly what Dorian wants? What _can_ he do?

“Is that supposed to scare me, oh great Inquisitor?” Dorian teases, his fingers digging into his sides until Lavellan can't help it any longer, twitching away from them. “You are so feeble, I probably wouldn't even notice it if you were trying to teach me a lesson right now.”

Lavellan swallows, almost chocking on it. He pushes himself up onto his elbows again, and Dorian greets him with a gentle smile, his gaze warm, like the palm he presses against Lavellan's hip.

Still it takes Lavellan a moment longer to realise that Dorian really only wants for him to... to make friends. That there was nothing sinister about his intentions.

He has no trouble remembering the loneliness that consumed him, when he and Dorian had broken up. How suddenly nothing mattered anymore.

How easy of a target he had been for a mere Despair Demon's magic.

Lavellan nods, quietly grinding his teeth. He can't believe he misread Dorian's actions so badly.

Dorian huffs, soft lines returning to the corners of his eyes again. He moves his arm from behind his back, raising himself up and Lavellan with him. 

Presses his lips quickly onto the frown that has claimed Lavellan's forehead, before sitting up fully.

Lavellan blinks against the brightness of the sun now shining into his eyes, before inspecting the shadows the tree is casting next to them.

Dorian follows his gaze. Then he shudders, taking the hem of his shirt with two fingers and drawing it away from his body, looking dismayed. One of Dorian's hands critically combs through his hair, and the displeased lines at his mouth deepen.

Watching him eases the awful feeling in Lavellan's stomach, the ache in his chest.

“We should go inside or we'll both catch a cold, and end up bedridden together this time,” Dorian says, obviously having had enough of the less than perfect state of his appearance.

Lavellan hums and stands up, stretching up onto his naked toes, wriggling them in the grass underneath. He tilts his head slightly, and replies softly, one corner of his mouth raised, “That doesn't sound so bad.”

Dorian follows him up, one of his arms sneaking around Lavellan's shoulders, pulling him close against Dorian's side. “No,” he murmurs in agreement, as they take the first steps back into the direction of the rising ruckus of Skyhold. “I suppose it doesn't.”

Lavellan can hear the smile in his voice well before Dorian presses it with gentle lips onto his temple.

 

* * *

 

Dorian is on edge, stalking through the main room of their quarters with long, aggressive strides.

Lavellan is sitting at his desk, doing his best to ignore him, concentrating on the request for a fortification of Caer Bronach that Cullen gave him earlier.

Apparently the bandits have returned, and the Red Templars have become more forceful in their attacks. _If our fort falls, the village will be lost for good._ He chews on his bottom lip, wondering if Judith is alright, all alone in her cottage at the edge of Crestwood. _Maybe I could ask her to move into the fort, at least until the Templars are dealt with? Or maybe she could come here! Her knowledge could be—_

Pain races through his body, and he clenches his teeth tightly to suppress a gasp.

He hides the unmistakable green glow under the desk, clutching at his branded hand with his other one. 

Lavellan carefully controls his breathing, waiting for this attack to pass as well.

The Anchor has been aching all day, a pulsing agony travelling from it with every beat of his heart, keeping him not only from his morning run but from any other physical activity as well.

Dorian reaches the left wall again, looking at the bookshelves there for a moment, before pacing to the other side of the room once more.

His restlessness is not helping.

With grim satisfaction, Lavellan presses his thumb into the throbbing mark, not even caring that this could very well make the pain worse. Give him pain that he can _control_ , and he'll endure it without complaint — but this unrelenting discomfort burns away at his patience and his will equally quickly.

He feels Dorian's eyes bore into him for a moment, and carefully keeps his face blank, staring unseeingly down at the paper in front of him until Dorian resumes his aggressive strides.

Another spasm from the damned magic bound to him, and his helplessness in the face of it makes him want to scream.

It hasn't been this bad in a long while, and Lavellan wonders at the reason for it. Maybe he should go to Leliana, ask her about any new Rifts opening nearby. If there's anything to know, she has probably already gotten word about it from her spies.

A deep inhale from across the room makes his ears twitch. 

Apparently, Dorian has finally had enough of being ignored in his sulking lament.

Lavellan keeps his pulsing arm and his rising discomfort well hidden when Dorian approaches him, though Lavellan does scowl when the request is taken away from him, moved to the very edge of his desk.

He looks up, but Dorian's disdainful gaze is directed at the paper under his long, elegant fingers. “Do tell, what _is_ oh, so important and captivating that you are ignoring me?” he asks with an air of apathy to him, without even looking at Lavellan.

“Paperwork,” Lavellan answers without inflection, resting his head on the hand not currently driving him mad.

Dorian's eyes — darker than usual, thanks to his foul mood — flicker to Lavellan's face. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, drawing himself up, chin slightly raised.

Lavellan imagines him sharpening his tongue, and then drawing his weapon of choice with great flourish. Usually, he would prepare himself for Dorian's sharp wit, but he's so _tired_.

Dorian's voice is just as cutting as anticipated. “I asked you — and I feel like this was hours ago — a question. A painfully simple one, I do think, and I would very much like an answer to it.” His hands move to the edge of the desk, coming to rest on top of it, fingers sprawled wide.

If Lavellan were more present right now, he would describe Dorian's posture as looming.

“Now,” Dorian insists, almost hissing.

Lavellan has really hoped his silence would be answer enough. But of course, he's not that lucky. _I never am_ , he thinks, clenching his throbbing hand into a fist while his upper body remains relaxed.

Dorian makes an enraged sound, throwing his hands up in a dramatic movement. “One glass. _One glass_. What could that possibly do?” he asks again.

Lavellan has to commend him on making his request sound entirely reasonable, he really does. If it wasn't for the Anchor reminding him insistently about what is at stake or the ever-present awareness of the loss of his muscles, his strength, _his_ weapon of choice...

He might have caved already, given in to Dorian's earlier, much more charming appeal for a drink. Given in, and officially signed off Dorian's attempt at throwing everything away they've been fighting for, together.

Maybe this is why he has purposely ignored Dorian's question until now. For one moment Lavellan thinks about asking Dorian about what set him off, what got under his skin so badly that he's craving to soothe the hurt with alcohol— the Anchor sends a burning wave through Lavellan's body again, and the thought is forgotten.

“Well?” Dorian demands, arms now tense at his sides, though his fingers are still restlessly twitching at his sides.

Lavellan realises with dread that this will be the moment to decide the future of their relationship, that he'll have to stop being a coward in this or learn to live with the consequences of his inaction.

But there's three voices fighting inside of his head right now, making everything all the more difficult: one is Dorian's friend, concerned about his well-being. Another one is the Inquisitor, leader to Dorian and to so many others, afraid of the disaster even one moment of carelessness could bring. And the last one is a starry-eyed, naive elf who gave Dorian his heart and who wants to give him so much more, until the end of his days.

He cannot help the small moment of weakness then, of looking away from Dorian's hostile face, and to the book Dorian still keeps carrying around with him, even now. 

Even with that request on his lips.

Dorian's fingers twitch violently, probably with the urge to rip the book away from his body.

That, more than anything, finally forces Lavellan's eyes back to him.

Whatever answer Dorian can see forming on his face, he doesn't like it. “So you honestly want to tell me, one measly glass would make a difference to you? That you...” For a moment he struggles with his words.

 _At least I'm not the only one struggling here_ , Lavellan thinks tiredly.

“That you... that you wouldn't welcome me back, because of one glass of wine? Is that it?”

Lavellan blinks at him slowly, considering Dorian's words. 

The Anchor pulses and pulses, making his thoughts fall over themselves in a wild tangle. 

“I don't know,” he finally answers, truthfully.

Dorian's face falls, then draws taut with anger. “I see,” he says, deathly calm. 

He leaves their quarters with one last, long look at Lavellan.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, when the pain has finally ebbed and Lavellan goes to bed that night, Dorian has still not returned.

But Lavellan doesn't worry. Not much, anyway.

He stares at the empty bedside next to him, his body aching with the strain it had to endure, and his heart aching for another reason entirely.

Lavellan could get up now, of course, try to find Dorian. But he doesn't know what he would do, should he find Dorian in the tavern. His fingers clench into the blanket, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

Despite the unrest inside of him, Lavellan can feel exhaustion slowly dragging him under, and with a heavy sigh he gives in to its beckoning call.

He trusts Dorian to fight at his side. 

He trusts Dorian with his heart.

He will try to trust him in this as well.

 

* * *

 

Much later, when the candles have long since burnt down, Lavellan wakes to somebody whispering his name. It is telling that he hasn't woken when Dorian had joined him in bed, and that he doesn't even tense now, doesn't even think about reaching for a weapon, about having to defend himself.

His body is turning towards Dorian's even before Lavellan has fully opened his eyes.

“Amatus,” Dorian says quietly, one of his hands stroking over Lavellan's cheek.

Lavellan shudders slightly, clutching at it with one of his own, holding the chilled skin to his face. He answers without hesitation, “Ma vhenan.” His voice is rough from sleep, heavy tongue in his mouth making him stumble slightly over the words.

Dorian smiles, and Lavellan follows the urge to edge closer to him, to trace over the lines at his lips with one finger.

A soft laugh puffs against his hand, followed by Dorian's voice, warm and tender, “Your abnormal eyes really do give you an unfair advantage of me in this darkness.” One of his fingers, free from Lavellan's hold of his hand, taps high on Lavellan's cheek until the eye above it twitches shut.

Lavellan huffs, nudging one of his legs between Dorian's, feeling the chill to them even through the material of their night clothing. “Who are you calling abnormal?” he mumbles distractedly, drawing their clasped hands down, until they are resting between their chests. He presses his face to Dorian's shoulder, his nose against the skin of his throat. 

Flowers, and the familiar smell of Dorian's sweat underneath it — Lavellan exhales with a deep, content sigh.

Dorian chuckles lowly, the sound of it making Lavellan's ears heat up and twitch. His other hand finds the skin of Lavellan's neck, drawing circles over the fine hairs there. “Either you were turned into a mabari while I was away,” Dorian says, sounding thoughtful and amused. “Or you are unobtrusively investigating where exactly I've spent the last few hours.”

“In the gardens,” mumbles Lavellan, sleepy and calm, his limbs growing heavy again.

The fingers on his neck stop moving.

Lavellan edges closer then, trapping their joined hands between their chests, moulding himself against Dorian completely.

He presses his mouth to the juncture of Dorian's neck and chin, enjoying the hint of stubble against his lips. “You're cold and smell of flowers,” he says quietly. 

His reply is an amused huff. 

“And I'm also a mabari,” Lavellan admits with a hum, pressing another kiss against Dorian's cheek. 

When the fingers on his neck begin to move again, Lavellan smiles.

 

* * *

 

It's the beginning of a sunny day, although the air is fairly chilly.

Dorian wouldn't let himself be talked into a morning run today, no matter how much Lavellan needled him about it.

He's probably still asleep, stretched out languidly on their bed.

It's not as enjoyable alone, not since Lavellan got used to experiencing them with Dorian. At least there hasn't been another mention of alcohol since that awful day a week ago, but Lavellan pushes any thought about that incident out of his head again quickly. He's sure that the exercise is just as good for Dorian as it is for him, and seeing Dorian out of breath, sweaty and dishevelled is just a bonus.

Lavellan grins to himself, running until his body protests, breath deserting him.

From the balustrade of Skyhold's walls he watches the rising activity below, the guards changing shifts, and the shopkeepers talking each other down while setting up their stalls. He tries to guess at the other people's destinations, until breath comes a bit easier, until he feels less weak and pathetic.

Lavellan's wandering eyes fall onto the smithy, and suddenly he remembers the chinks in his neglected greatsword.

 _It's been a long time,_ he thinks, before he heads back to their quarters to get his weapon.

 

* * *

 

It was awkward to enter the smithy only for everyone inside of it to stop working. At first, they waited for him to give orders, and then the waiting turned to staring when Lavellan made use of the forge himself.

It didn't last long, the wondering eyes on his back, but Lavellan is still relieved when he leaves the smithy again after a quick goodbye, and his sword to cool off.

He should have made use of it sooner, then they would already be familiar with his presence. Idly, he scratches at his forehead with one finger.

The forge has left his skin and cheeks heated, but he's satisfied with the repairs he got done on his weapon, even if he doesn't have much use of it right now.

The cool wind on his skin feels wonderful, but Lavellan doesn't want to linger outside for much longer, afraid he'll manage to end up bedridden again because of a simple cold.

His finger is still on his forehead, and Lavellan flinches when he realises that he was absently tracing over the lines marking him. He draws the hand away from his face quickly, as if burned, clenching both of them into fists at his sides. It was a mistake, coming here, and now his skin itches, the darkness lurking in his head crowing with something else to torment him with.

No, not now. Not today. He will not think about the vallaslin today.

He inhales shakily, before stretching his arms over his head, muscles protesting because of the heavy hammer they had been forced to wield for so long.

Lavellan hopes that nobody was paying attention to him just now, and as if on their own, his feet begin to move towards the rotunda, towards Dorian.

He almost snorts at himself for being so predictable.

It's probably only the lingering uneasiness, still churning low in his stomach thanks to the smithy, but he feels that today, the mass of smiling and greeting people won't stop at all. He waves away the fourth noble trying to entrap him in a lengthy conversation, and quickens his strides.

He groans quietly when he finally reaches Dorian's alcove and lets himself fall against the back of the large armchair, placing his arms on the top of it.

Dorian turns in his chair, closing the book that he was reading.

His raised eyebrow says more than a hundred words, and Lavellan smiles at him.

But before he can even greet him properly, Dorian's lips are curling into an abrupt and wide smile.

Sudden wariness makes the fine hairs on the back of Lavellan's neck stand up.

“Inquisitor,” Dorian says, slowly and quietly, and Lavellan's toes twitch with the desire to turn and flee.

Something of it must have shown on his face, because there's a gleam to Dorian's eyes. “I've heard the most curious talk earlier.” He leans up slightly, and—

Is Dorian _smelling_ him?

A curious mix of emotions play over Dorian's face then: interest, followed closely by satisfaction. 

Which quickly ends up in a frown.

Dorian leans back again, looking at Lavellan critically.

He tries not to fidget. Maybe he should have cleaned himself before coming here, changed his clothes to get rid of the smell of smoke and sweat.

No wonder Dorian is screwing up his nose at him.

“So,” prompts Dorian after another moment of silence. “Apparently the rumours are indeed true, and you have taken to haunting the smithy.” Dorian's raised eyebrow climbs even higher. “Care to explain to me exactly why you failed to mention your aptitude for the craft with me?”

Lavellan blinks at him, too surprised that this is apparently a piece of news worthy of being spread around Skyhold.

He frowns, shrugging. “It's just something that I can do. It's not very important or exciting,” Lavellan says, trying to soothe Dorian, obviously hurt by him keeping a secret, even such a small and harmless one.

The second eyebrow joins the first one, high up on Dorian's brow. “Is that so,” he drawls. He pokes Lavellan's forehead with one finger, and Lavellan's too surprised to move away from it. “In that case, why is this 'not important or exciting' aspect of yourself directly connected to your tattoo, then?”

Lavellan flinches back as if Dorian just struck him.

Dorian frowns, surprise and concern evident on his face, and Lavellan can only stare at him with wide eyes.

A cough stifled in a fist. “I read about your gods in a book. I apologise for startling you,” Dorian says, voice quiet as he gets up to move around to Lavellan's side. 

Lavellan is still too perplex to make himself move.

One of Dorian's hands on his back, rubbing in slow, calming circles, deep lines between his eyes. “Amatus, please. Say something.”

Lavellan inhales deeply, blinking rapidly as he exhales.

He's a Dalish hunter.

He's the Inquisitor.

Dorian is—

 _I can tell him,_ Lavellan realises, looking at Dorian's concerned face.

He nods, turning and taking Dorian's hand, his voice rough as he promises, “We'll speak tonight. I need some time to think.” He tilts his head at Dorian, unsure. “Is that okay?”

Dorian moves closer to him then, something urgent to it all. “You don't have to tell me at all, if you do not—“

Lavellan shakes his head at him. “No, it's fine. I'll see you tonight.”

He squeezes Dorian's hand once, trying to assure him, trying to ease the worry lines on his face.

When his steps take him away again quickly, he's pretty sure that he hasn't succeeded, but he leaves anyway.

Lavellan has a lot to think about.

 

* * *

 

He paces their quarters, moving from the desk to the stairs and back again.

Lavellan doesn't actually know why he's even surprised that Dorian is curious about the meaning of his vallaslin.

 _Probably, because we've become so good at not talking about difficult topics_ , he muses, sitting down on the white couch by the banister. They have still not talked about what had unsettled Dorian badly enough to crave a drink, but Lavellan shies away from the question, just as he shies away right now.

He leans back, his head on the soft backrest of the couch, his arms stretched apart on both sides.

It would have been easy to prepare a simple comment about his vallaslin, only a short explanation about its meaning, enough to stifle Dorian's hunger for knowledge before it had a chance to fully develop.

But with his stupid, startled overreaction, Lavellan has made that option impossible.

He doesn't even know how Dorian was able to find a book about this aspect of his culture in Skyhold. Until now, Lavellan was sure that the first action of Solas after leading them here was to get rid of anything regarding the Dalish.

He rotates his head once, trying to relax. Lavellan tilts his head then, looking at the Dalish ornaments he picked for the windows in Skyhold. He's still surprised that Solas hasn't commented on them yet, that they are still whole. It makes him smile slightly.

It's no wonder Dorian would show interest in his vallaslin, has probably swallowed many questions about Lavellan's culture already.

Dorian deserves to know, and Lavellan _wants_ for him to know this, for him to understand Lavellan. His heart pounds inside of his chest with the realisation.

Sounds at the door at the bottom of the stairs, and the smile falls from his lips instantly.

How high are the chances of it being just a servant or a messenger?

His stomach ties itself into knots, and he tenses.

He wants to tell Dorian, but he doesn't want to talk about, to think about it. It's too personal, too close to the surface already.

Steps coming closer, slow but unstoppable, and Lavellan jumps away from the couch, pacing in an aborted circle.

Just before Dorian's head appears above the balustrade, he gives up, letting himself fall onto their bed. His toes dig into the stone underneath it, and he closes his eyes.

The steps stop at the top of the stairs, and Lavellan isn't thinking about Dorian already being here.

“I did mean it. You don't have to talk about it, if it causes you this much discomfort,” Dorian says carefully, and Lavellan opens his eyes again, tilting his head towards him.

Hip against the balustrade, fingers slowly working the clasps of his gloves undone, Dorian looks relaxed. But the slight downwards turn to one corner of his mouth, and the lines on his forehead speak a different language.

Lavellan considers him, this human that he has chosen to let closer to himself than anyone before.

It's not easy, the two of them together, but he cannot find a fault with his choice.

He pats the space next to him, and after a small moment of hesitation, Dorian places the gloves and bindings on the couch before joining him at the edge of the bed.

Just when Lavellan is thinking about pulling at Dorian's clothing until he lies down as well, Dorian shifts backwards and onto his side, wriggling until he's comfortable, head propped up on one hand.

Lavellan inhales, his hands worrying at the blanket they are lying on. “I don't think that this will be very interesting for you, I'm not...” He frowns, swallowing. “I'm not very good at explaining stuff,” he mumbles.

As if this is any news to Dorian.

Dorian makes a soft sound, his left hand inching up to Lavellan's shoulder, a warm weight there. His voice is smooth and mock-thoughtful, when he says, “Myself, I prefer lecturing. Enlightening those lesser brilliant is usually rather tedious.” He smiles, warm lines at his eyes.

Lavellan tries to mimic his smile, but fails. He sighs heavily, looking at the ceiling above. “Our pantheon consists of nine creators,” he drones, repeating the words of his teachers. “They all represent specific ideas and principles.” 

He listens to Dorian's breathing next to him. Even, calming. 

“Once you come of age or when the Keeper thinks that you are ready for it, you choose one of the Creators to become your Patron, to become a part of you with the vallaslin.”

He can feel Dorian's eyes on his face, and he looks back at him, letting Dorian study the distinct lines on his skin.

“Three of them I had enough in common with to pick as my own. Mythal, Andruil and June.” Then he stops, distracted by Dorian's bright, intent eyes.

The pause drags on, prompting Dorian to make a soft, curious sound.

“I never cared much for our Creators,” Lavellan says eventually, grudgingly.

“I think we have finally found the one topic that you and Solas can bond over,” Dorian muses, stroking over the tip of Lavellan's left ear.

Lavellan shudders, not only because of the touch.

He looks away from Dorian's warm eyes, down at his moustache, and his fingers itch with the urge to touch the coarse hairs of it. Lavellan moves onto his side, mindful not to jostle the hand on his skin. He places his right hand on Dorian's chest, wishing the clothing wasn't so complicated to get rid of, wouldn't keep him from touching the familiar skin of Dorian's breastbone. He presses his palm to the right of Dorian's chest, where the outfit allows for a teasing glimpse of the skin it is hiding.

Two of his finger manage to wedge between the leather cords there, and Dorian doesn't complain, only keeps looking at him, his eyes dark and focused.

Lavellan stumbles over the words, suddenly raw and awkward in his mouth. “I... I don't think...”

The fingers on his ear stop moving, but their owner remains silent, waiting for Lavellan to collect himself.

He's grateful for Dorian's patience with him.

Lavellan's voice is slightly surer when he continues, “This isn't... I have never talked with anyone about this before.”

 _There is only you_ , he adds, in the safe corners of his head.

An unbearably long moment passes — the span of a single heartbeat — while Lavellan stares at Dorian's mouth. He can feel his face and ears _burning_.

A soft smile finds its way to those gorgeous lips, and Dorian places his hand on the one Lavellan keeps trapped in his clothing, prodding at it gently until Lavellan withdraws it from underneath the cords. As if by their own will, Lavellan's eyes find Dorian's again. 

Time stops. 

Or it might just be that Lavellan stops thinking, stops breathing.

Slowly, Dorian guides Lavellan's hand up to his lips, pressing a hot, almost burning kiss to the knuckles.

Lavellan smiles. _He knows._

Dorian presses their joined hands against his chest. “I apologise for interrupting you. Please, carry on.”

Lavellan can't tear his attention away from their clasped hands, falling and raising with every breath that Dorian takes. He makes a questioning sound.

Dorian huffs, amused, before steering him back to the topic of his curiosity. “You mentioned the three gods— no, the correct title for them is 'Creators', isn't it?” 

Lavellan nods, and Dorian's eyes sparkle with satisfaction. “Mythal, Andruil and June. Those were the three you were able to choose from,” he says, obviously pleased with himself for being able to recite the names.

Lavellan decides not to point out his awful pronunciation, the way he cuts off abruptly when the name should flow on for much longer. 

He shrugs. “Yes, but 'god' is fine.” He closes his eyes, repeating what he was taught. “In order, they represent: _The Great Protector_ , _Goddess of the Hunt_ , and lastly, _God of the Craft_.”

He opens his eyes again. Dorian's head is tilted slightly to the side, a contemplative look on his face.

Goosebumps travel over Lavellan's skin. Usually, that level of concentration is reserved for books, and particularly interesting things that they stumble over during their journeys.

Lavellan almost wishes that Dorian would interrupt him again.

He shifts slightly, until one of his knees is pressed against Dorian's thigh. He keeps his head on the blanket, moving his other hand to clutch at the arm Dorian is leaning on.

Lavellan edges closer, his eyes moving down from interested eyes to the moustache above now smiling lips.

A careful, calculated move and he could roll himself on top of Dorian, lick at his chin and mouth until there would be something else on his mind.

“Until today, I would have ascribed Andruil to you without another thought,” Dorian says quietly. 

Lavellan looks up again, noticing the raised eyebrow. 

“But apparently there are still some hidden depths to you that I have yet to uncover,” Dorian adds quietly, amusement clear in his voice. He will not be distracted, when he's so close to gaining new knowledge.

After biting down onto his lower lip once, Lavellan continues, hoping that he doesn't sound too surly, “We are a nomadic people, and every Clan has their own traditions and practices.” 

Dorian hums, obviously satisfied with himself for keeping Lavellan going.

Lavellan presses one of his fingers pointedly onto Dorian's chest in warning. “Sometimes, we even disagree on how we see our Creators.” He smiles wryly, stroking over the skin of Dorian's upper arm with his other hand. “Just like you do, when it comes to Andraste.”

Dorian makes an affirmative sound in the back of his throat, nodding thoughtfully.

“My Clan was—“ Lavellan stops speaking then, frowning at himself.

Dorian tightens the hold he has on Lavellan's hand, the smile on his lips evening out.

Lavellan swallows once, continuing as if nothing happened, “... _is_ very unrestricted, compared to others, when it comes to the vallaslin. If you share even one trait with what one of our Creator's represents, you are free to choose them as your Patron.”

He hesitates for a moment, unsure of his next words.

But Dorian will want to hear this as well.

Lavellan says quietly, eyes intent on Dorian's face, “I've heard of other Clans that force a Creator on their young, depending on what role needs to be filled the most in their structure.”

Something dark and ugly flickers behind Dorian's eyes, the body underneath his hands tensing, and Lavellan waits until he has composed himself again, stroking over Dorian's arm with gently fingers.

Suddenly, Dorian chuckles, and Lavellan blinks at him, confused.

Dorian shakes his head, at what, Lavellan can only guess. Then, he lets go of Lavellan's hand, rolling halfway on top of him, one leg falling between Lavellan's thighs.

The hand not keeping his upper body raised over Lavellan runs down his side, until the warm palm settles onto Lavellan's hip. 

Lavellan blinks again, his hands flexing, one still on Dorian's upper arm, the other one on empty air.

Another chuckle. “To think, the next time I will have the displeasure of my father's company, I will be able to tell him that he would fit right into a Dalish Clan, somewhere out there,” Dorian says. He shakes his head again, a disbelieving smile on his lips. 

Amused, despite the ugly topic.

And while Lavellan is quite pleased with his reaction, something about Dorian's words ring wrong to his ears, and not even the welcome, familiar weight on his body keeps his head from stumbling over it. 

Why is he so absolutely sure that he will have to see his father again?

Lavellan moves his free hand up to the back of Dorian's neck, fingers firm on his hair, pressing down until Dorian follows the movement, bringing their faces closer together.

Dorian looks at him, still amused, but with a question in his eyes.

“I can't wait to see his face, either, when you get to tell him that,” Lavellan says, careful to keep his voice relaxed and even, while his eyes and senses remain sharp, intent on Dorian's face.

Dorian _falters_. His eyes widen and his muscles tense yet again, most noticeable in the hand still holding onto Lavellan's hip, in the flexing fingers Lavellan can feel through the thin material of his clothing.

Dorian inhales deeply, clearly struggling with himself. He closes his eyes, and leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to Lavellan's brow.

Lavellan keeps himself very, very still.

After another moment Dorian withdraws, but only enough so that he can press their foreheads together. His eyes are still closed, and there's a smile on his lips, wide, but shaky at the edges.

This position can't be comfortable for him to hold, with his neck bend awkwardly, and with only one arm to keep him upright, but Dorian remains like this, and Lavellan decides not to ask.

Whatever is going on inside that complicated, wonderful head of Dorian's, Lavellan is sure that he doesn't know how to even begin about unravelling whatever it is that is eating away at him, in the darker corners of it.

And there is one thing he _does_ know: The wrong words could all too easily destroy not only that unstable smile, but much, much more. And so Lavellan does what he always does: He swallows the question on his tongue, and it joins all the other unspoken words between them, sharp and unsettling, low in his stomach.

After a few deep breaths Dorian moves away slightly, deep lines at his eyes, the smile gone.

Lavellan scratches through his dark hair, his voice thoughtful. “Where was I?”

Above him, Dorian's body relaxes, shifting slightly until he's lying comfortably on Lavellan again. His eyes shine, bright, but the skin around them relaxes. “I apologise for interrupting you yet again, amatus,” Dorian says quietly, voice rough.

Catching on the last word. 

He clears his throat, and moves the hand on Lavellan's hip away, placing his upper arm next to Lavellan's head, careful fingers touching his ear again.

Lavellan hums, smiling softly.

It wavers when he remembers what he'll have to explain next.

“I had three Creators to chose from,” he repeats, buying himself some time.

The focus in Dorian's eyes prompts him to continue all too soon.

“Mythal—“ He stops, suddenly realising something that sends a spike of unease, and a thrill of possibility through him. 

“Andruil, the great hunter,” he says instead, speaking slowly and calmly, hoping Dorian won't think anything strange of it. 

No visible reaction, and Lavellan concentrates on the feeling of Dorian's hair between the fingers of his left hand, on the muscle of Dorian's upper arm under the palm of his right one. “The obvious choice for me, I thought, until I was told how important teamwork is for her, and that she usually favours hunters who use a bow.”

He frowns, grumbling, “I can use a bow. I'm just much better with a larger weapon.”

Dorian smirks, though he doesn't say anything. One of his fingers strokes over the tip of Lavellan's ear, effectively bringing him back into the present, and away from the jeering faces of his former peers.

He makes a small sound, enjoying the touch for a moment longer. Then he says, “The second one was June, our Master of Crafts.”

On top of him Dorian's body shifts slightly, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

Lavellan scratches over his scalp with one finger, feeling one corner of his mouth twitching upwards at Dorian's reaction. “I had damaged my first sword badly, through my own dumb fault. Our smith thought I needed to learn a lesson in patience.” His lips curl into a smirk.

Dorian laughs softly. “What did you do? Don't tell me just crept to the forge while nobody was looking, and tried your hand at it,” he prompts, amusement becoming more prominent with every word, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

Lavellan chuckles, a startled sound. “Actually,” he drawls, then stops, long enough to enjoy the disbelieving shake of Dorian's head. “I watched her forge the weapons for me and the others.” 

The corners of Dorian's lips twitch.

“I know that this might surprise you, but I'm not really patient,” Lavellan says, his fingers tapping on Dorian's hair.

An exaggerated gasp, and Dorian's eyes widen comically, his voice a hushed whisper. “Colour me well and truly shocked by this sudden reveal. Well and truly shocked.” The fingers on Lavellan's ear pinch, once, not painful, but hard enough to send a shudder through Lavellan's body.

He coughs, making sure his voice is stable. “I waited until everyone was at a gathering, and then I tried to fix my sword on my own. Of course, I forgot about how loud of a process it is, and got the lecture of my life.” He smiles fondly at the memory of it, and Dorian snorts.

“Triah, our smith, thought I had shown potential in my 'inept flailing', and, well. That's it.” He shrugs with one shoulder.

Dorian raises an eyebrow at him.

Lavellan moves both of his hands to Dorian's hips, squirming under his stare.

“'That's it',” Dorian repeats drily, both of his eyebrows raised now.

Lavellan forces his body to stay still. “No.” He bites onto his lower lip.

Gentle fingers trace over the contours of his ear, and Lavellan sighs. “I'm a pretender,” he says calmly, admitting it loudly.

Dorian tilts his head, curious, not judgemental.

Lavellan worries his lower lip again. “I'm good at forging, at working with metals. But it's not something I enjoy very much. Not like hunting.” He hopes that Dorian will see the reason for Lavellan's secrecy now, will stop prodding for more.

A slow shake of a dark head dashes that hope. Voice apologetic, and words careful, just like the fingers on Lavellan's ear, Dorian says, “I'm afraid that I still don't understand.”

He sounds and looks so sorry about it, even though Lavellan is the one failing him, and not the other way around.

It makes the uneasy feeling in his stomach even worse.

“The only thing I am good at is hunting, but June is the one who gifted me. And I—“ He falters then, looking away from the frown on Dorian's face, down to his throat.

Movement there. Lavellan continues before Dorian can say anything, his words almost tumbling over themselves in his haste. “And I just can't appreciate that gift. But I still chose to wear her vallaslin on my skin, because I wasn't right for the other ones, either. I am—“ He blinks, searching for the right word. “—faulty. Unworthy.”

Above him, Dorian tenses. “Did somebody call you that?” he asks, voice low, an edge to it.

Startled, Lavellan's eyes move back to his face.

Deep lines on the sides of his nose, the beginning of a snarl on his lips.

Around them, the air changes, thickening, and the hairs on the back of Lavellan's nape rise.

“Did somebody call you faulty or unworthy?” Dorian repeats, far too calmly.

Now Lavellan manages to open his mouth, still confused. “No?” 

Dorian blinks at him, and the tension lessens slightly.

A deep inhale, Dorian's voice sounding almost normal again. “Why do you think this way, then? Because you don't embody your Creators perfectly?”

Lavellan nods, relieved that Dorian finally understands. “Nobody else had a problem with choosing their Patron.”

A frown claims Dorian's forehead, and the fingers on Lavellan's ear shift. “How do you figure that?” 

Lavellan blinks at him. “I asked my hunting brothers and sisters.” Finally an easy answer. But shouldn't that be obvious?

“We had just gotten rid of a pack of boars that had been bothering the Clan, and we had a small feast for ourselves, to celebrate.” Lavellan frowns, then adds, entirely disapproving, “There was a lot of moonshine going around.”

A small twitch at one corner of Dorian's mouth. “That was when you asked your hunting peers? Around your age back then, rather young?”

Lavellan nods, confused by the question.

He is even more confused when Dorian suddenly rests his dark head on his chest.

“Let me recapitulate,” Dorian says, voice slightly muffled because of his new position. “You asked your peers — drunk on victory and alcohol both — a highly personal question during a celebration? Am I interpreting this correctly?”

“...yes?” Lavellan answers slowly, after thinking about it for a moment.

Dorian's shoulders and back are shaking, the movement of it vibrating strangely in Lavellan's chest, and on the palm still on his hip.

“And even with all those factors, you expected an honest answer from them?” Dorian asks, voice strained.

Lavellan's eyes widen when he realises that Dorian is actually _laughing_ , an indignant sound in the back of his throat.

Dorian's head lifts up again then, revealing a smile on his lips, wrinkled skin at the edges of his bright, warm eyes.

Lavellan frowns, his fingers flexing on the buckles on Dorian's clothing.

Gentle fingers trace over his ear again. “I apologise,” Dorian says, amusement still colouring every word. “After your peers assured you — quite boastfully, I'm certain — that it was the easiest choice in their entire lives, did you consider approaching one of your elders about the topic?”

His words drag the corners of Lavellan's mouth down. “No,” he mumbles, cautious now.

A soft sound from Dorian, and his hand is merely cupping Lavellan's ear now, his palm warm against the back of it. His smile changes then, turning softer at the edges. “Far be it from me to ever even _think_ about lecturing someone on a topic that I'm not studied in myself,” he says, a mocking lilt to it.

Lavellan refuses to let the corners of his mouth move up again. He refuses.

Dorian shifts to support himself onto his left side, and Dorian's right hand appears before Lavellan's eyes, two fingers tracing over his face, from his forehead over to his nose. They linger on his lips for a moment, until the corners of them twitch, then move again, stopping on his chin. 

“Of course, you could never be the personification of a Creator or even the mere ideal of it. Nobody can.” Dorian inhales softly, as if he's just realising something. “We are all different. Unique in our individual components.”

Finally, Lavellan stops fighting against the smile, his hands coming to rest against Dorian's sides.

“I am not yet sure about _your_ components, though,” Dorian murmurs. “You keep revealing new, fascinating ones whenever I begin to feel secure in having figured you out.”

Lavellan laughs softly. He moves one of his hands up to Dorian's head again, pressing down until their foreheads touch. “That was the plan,” he whispers into the small space between them. “Don't want you to get bored.”

Dorian's voice is rough. “Of you? The mere idea is preposterous.”

Dark and ugly disbelief at his own stupidity rises inside of his head, and Lavellan distracts himself by pressing a kiss high up and to the side of Dorian's nose, the moustache tickling his chin.

Dorian's other hand moves to his neck, scratching at it pointedly.

Lavellan lets his head fall back onto the bed, curious. His ear twitches when the warm palm moves away from it.

With intent eyes, Dorian places one finger on Lavellan's forehead, tracing over the lines of his vallaslin.

A shudder rushes through Lavellan, and he can't help but wonder if this is what it would feel like to be an interesting book in Dorian's hands. His fingers flex restlessly on the material and buckles of Dorian's outfit, at his hips and on his shoulder, all that attention focused on himself almost too much for Lavellan to bear.

The hand at his throat keeps his head still until Dorian is satisfied.

Lavellan's face tingles, burning almost, as if the vallaslin has just been etched into his skin for a second time.

Dorian's eyes focus on his again, and Lavellan blinks.

“I think you chose the right one, in the end,” Dorian says quietly, entirely serious. His lips curl into a smirk. “Even if your gullibility still amazes me.”

Lavellan digs his thumbs into the weak points of the material under his palms, and above him Dorian's body jerks in reaction.

“Why the right one?” he asks, sceptical, ignoring the rest.

The smirk widens.

Lavellan might as well leave his thumbs where they are.

Fingers tap at his throat. “Just consider all the gorgeous puddles of blood you tend to leave in your wake.” He ignores Lavellan's snort, sounding almost delighted by his own wittiness. “Not to mention the blood spatters that you keep scattering everywhere.”

He mirrors Dorian's grin almost against his will, grateful for the distraction.

Then Lavellan nods, humming thoughtfully. “I'm not sure, if I can trust your judgement in this.”

He waits until Dorian makes a small sound, his eyes glinting.

“Every speck of blood probably looks like art to you,” he says drily.

A startled laugh, Dorian's face twisting almost comically with it for a moment, before he catches himself again. He nods, something like approval in the lines at his eyes. “It's true, blood is the favourite motif in the Imperium,” he says seriously, and both of his hands come up to cup Lavellan's head, moving underneath it.

Fingers tickle where his ears meet his head, and Lavellan squirms, biting his bottom lip. He presses his thumbs into the material of Dorian outfit in quiet retaliation.

They keep prodding and pressing at each other, until Lavellan throws his arms to his sides, admitting defeat. The corners of his eyes are wet, suppressed laughter making his chest heave.

Dorian's eyes are wide and wild, and he's bitten onto his lower lip to keep quiet. Lavellan watches with interest as the blood flows back into it, making it darker than usual.

“We should do it,” Dorian says, a bit breathless, stretching over Lavellan's body languidly. “Hang up a few white canvases with red specks on them here and there, and wait until somebody notices.”

Lavellan grins. “I would be safe from Cassandra's wrath, being the Inquisitor and all, but she would have your hide for it.”

Dorian nods thoughtfully. Then he frowns, one of his hands tickling behind Lavellan's ear again. “Don't pretend that you are not afraid of her.”

He squirms, catching both of Dorian's hands with his own, keeping them still and pressed against his skin. “I won't admit to anything,” he whispers, eyes on Dorian's flushed face.

Dorian consider him for a moment, a smile on his lips. Then he straightens himself, and withdraws his hands, slowly moving them over Lavellan's chest and to the first button of his vest. “You did chose the right one,” he says suddenly, quietly, and the button gives away under his clever fingers.

Lavellan makes a noise, unconvinced, and not looking forward to thinking about his own stupidity ever again. 

A finger taps onto the tip of his nose, Dorian's smile turning into a smirk. “And the swirling lines make you look awfully pretty.” The skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth wrinkle with mirth.

Lavellan snorts, his own hands moving up to undo the cords on Dorian's shoulder, the ones he usually manages to get undone before becoming frustrated with the complicated mechanics of Dorian's outfit. “I bet you say that to every Dalish elf that you meet,” he says quietly, one eyebrow raised. He meets Dorian's eyes for a beat, and Dorian's grin widens. 

“Oh, yes. You should have heard what I said to the one always hanging around Iron Bull the other day,” he begins, and Lavellan can't tear his eyes away from the curl of his red, red mouth. “I swear, on my most expensive pair of boots, I've never seen any person-”

He stops resisting the tempting call, his arms flying around Dorian's neck, pressing down until Lavellan can suck on his mouth, swallow the next low chuckle from it, until he can feel it settling warm and bright in his stomach.

They part, Lavellan raising himself up onto his elbows while Dorian's elegant fingers undress him, one button after the next. Lavellan watches his face, the small, content smile on his lips, but even the sight of it is not enough to distract him from the dark thoughts in his head.

Just how stupid was he, to just have accepted their cheery answers back then, without ever questioning it at all? He could have easily asked Raj or even Triah or anybody else before making his decision. He wouldn't have had to live with this restless feeling, whenever he spotted his vallaslin in a mirror. Lavellan worries at his button lip with his teeth, his chest feeling heavy.

The last button comes undone, the heated palms of Dorian's hands spanning wide over both sides of his ribcage, slowly wandering up, moving his vest first to the side, and then over Lavellan's shoulders.

The warm palms remain up there for a moment, and then lips press against his temple, just as soft as Dorian's voice in his ears. “I can hear you thinking, you know.”

“It's probably just the wind rushing through my empty head,” Lavellan mutters, watching the hands trailing down his body again.

A huff, followed by the shake of a dark head, Dorian's fingers now on the button of Lavellan's trousers.

Once opened, fingers tap against his pelvis, and Lavellan dutifully shifts up, allowing Dorian to pull his trousers and smallclothes off of him.

Dorian's eyes meet his again, only long enough for a blink, before slowly moving down his body, taking him in.

Lavellan tries not to fidget under the scrutiny, painfully aware of the scars marking him, and of his body, still too thin.

Without any change to his expression, Dorian bows down, pressing a dry, short kiss onto the right side of Lavellan's hip.

And just like the lines of his vallaslin that Dorian traced earlier, Lavellan is sure that he will feel the careful touch until the day he dies.

Dorian shifts onto his knees then, drawing himself up, and Lavellan hastily follows him, his own legs ending in an ungainly sprawl.

He moves his hands to Dorian's side, to the buckles there, wanting to return the favour, wanting _skin_.

Dorian endures his fumbling for a moment, until Lavellan's attempts turn into frustrated tugging. He gently bats Lavellan's hands away, clucking his tongue. “How often do I have to tell you that brute force will only end in me having to commission a new set from Tevinter?” he says, moving his own fingers to the shiny clasps that seem to be mocking Lavellan. “You press down here and here, and then you can pull on this end — carefully! — and push it open,” Dorian explains, his fingers dancing over the first clasp.

When it falls open he looks at Lavellan again, his voice amused. “Did you pay close attention?”

Lavellan scowls, plucking on the blanket underneath them. If Dorian hadn't already gotten rid of his gloves, he could have easily helped with them as well.

Dorian huffs again, before moving on to the next clasp. “Once more, then,” he says. “You press down—“

Lavellan's eyes focus on the clever fingers for a beat, before shifting to the material next to them. There are two moles there on Dorian's skin, hidden underneath that artful shell, and he wants to touch them, leave a wet trail from them up to the lonely one under Dorian's right nipple.

In the corner of his eyes, he notices that the busy fingers have stopped moving.

“You are not even pretending to pay attention this time,“ murmurs Dorian, a hint of sullenness to his words.

Lavellan looks back up at Dorian with wide, innocent eyes. He manages to keep the expression on his face until Dorian's mouth twitches, until the endearing wrinkles return to the corners of his eyes.

Grinning now, Lavellan says, easily and completely unapologetic, “It's not my fault that your clothing comes with written instructions.” He shrugs and Dorian chuckles.

“Come here,” he orders in a low voice, and Lavellan shifts closer until his knees are touching Dorian's thighs on both sides.

A satisfied hum, and Dorian's hands take a hold of his, moving them up to a set of clasps on Dorian's chest, the ones allowing him to carry a second back with him at all times.

“One press here,” he repeats yet again, voice patient. He presses his own index finger onto Lavellan's until there is a noticeable shift to the warming metal under Lavellan's fingertip. “Another one here,” followed by the same movement on the other side of the clasp. “And now we pull here.”

It falls open, and Dorian hums again, moving their hands to the next one.

“I don't think that I'll ever manage this on my own,” Lavellan says softly, enjoying the warm skin against his, the confident way in which he is being manoeuvred. 

Secretly wanting a repeat of this whenever possible.

Dorian chuckles quietly. “Your thoughts are written on your face again.”

Lavellan smiles, concentrating on the here and now. 

The expression freezes, when he realises that Dorian is showing him how to free him from his shell, his armor.

Trusting him with the means to uncover the real him.

Lavellan's throat turns dry.

Once the last hindrance is removed, he helps Dorian to slide out of the smooth material of his clothing, Lavellan's hands lingering over every mole that they reveal.

He blinks, only noticing now that the sun is already setting, bathing them in its waning orange light.

Suddenly feeling drained, Lavellan yawns loudly. Dorian does so as well, hiding it behind one of his hands.

Without another word, they slip under the covers, Dorian's body warm against the entire length of his back, one arm thrown over Lavellan's middle, palm on his stomach.

Dorian's head leans against the back of his, his breath warm and damp against Lavellan's neck.

Lavellan watches the shadows in their quarters lengthen, listening to Dorian's even breathing, until his eyelids seem far too heavy to open them ever again.

 

* * *

 

He dozes, trapped in the endless in-between of wakeful- and nothingness.

Fingers on his right arm keep him from falling asleep, seemingly tireless in their simple up and down movements.

Lavellan doesn't mind, though, not really. Can't, with Dorian a warm and comforting presence behind them.

A sigh makes his eyelids flutter.

“I apologise — I thought that I could be patient until morning, I really did,” Dorian says quietly, and far, far too awake for Lavellan's liking. 

He makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, ducking his head.

The fingers on his arm turn into a gripping palm. “The third one, which one was it?” Dorian asks, still quiet.

Lavellan makes another sound, one that could be taken to mean anything.

Dorian shifts closer to him, mouth at his right ear. “The third Creator you could have chosen. Tell me about them as well.”

“Mythal,” Lavellan mumbles without thinking. He adds, almost automatically after another beat, “All-Mother.”

Then his eyes snap open, and his stomach turns — sleep well and truly forgotten.

Behind him, Dorian makes a questioning sound.

Hungering for more knowledge.

This will happen, and it was stupid to think Dorian would be satisfied before getting everything from him. 

“She's the protector,” Lavellan murmurs, voice rough, his fingers plucking on the linen underneath them. “Pretty important, when you are a hunter.” 

He turns around then, wanting to see Dorian. The blanket slides down low over their hips, and their knees touch. The hand falls away from Lavellan's arm, coming to rest on his right side instead.

“If you can't even protect your people, you don't have to bother with feeding them,” he says quietly, looking at Dorian's face. 

The last rays of sunshine are putting it in deep shadows, and he wonders if Dorian's human eyes can even still see him or if Lavellan is already shrouded in utter darkness for him.

Dorian hums in agreement.

His hand is a comfortable weight on Lavellan's naked skin, moving with every breath that he takes.

“But she's also the goddess of justice and love,” he says, wondering if Dorian can feel his pounding pulse through the palm he has on Lavellan's side.

A slow grin is spreading over Dorian's lips.

Lavellan shakes his head at him before he can open his mouth for whatever witty comment is surely lying on his tongue. “Don't,” he pleads quickly, nerves making sweat gather on the back of his neck and in the crook of his arms.

At least he's not tired anymore.

“I have always acted rashly, without thinking about the consequences. Justice isn't something I should... or can give on my own. And love—” He stops, looking up at Dorian's face, at his widening eyes. 

Dorian is staring at him like he hasn't realised where this would lead them, before, too focused on his own cleverness.

It makes Lavellan smile fondly, despite the wild beat of his heart inside of his chest, despite the eerie feeling of _falling_ , low in his stomach. “Back then,” he says before stopping again, unsure of the words that he should use. 

He wants — needs — for Dorian to _understand_. 

“Back then,” he repeats quietly, past the lump in his throat. His left hand inches forward until the back of his fingers meet the warm skin of Dorian's stomach. 

Dorian doesn't seem to be breathing, frozen still.

“I was sure that I could never love anything but hunting,” Lavellan whispers, the rush of his blood almost deafening to his ears.

A sharp intake of breath, Dorian's lips parting on his next exhale.

Lavellan wants to reach out to him, to touch him, but his hands twitch uselessly on the covers underneath them, all of his attention focused on Dorian's slack expression.

Moving slowly, as if he's afraid, Dorian moves his left had to the gap between Lavellan's head and the pillow, touching it to Lavellan's throat.

The palm is almost searing against the cold sweat that has gathered on Lavellan's skin, as it moves in between the cushion and the side of his face. Dorian's fingers arrange themselves there, splaying wide to his throat and ear, the thumb a small weight on the middle of his cheek.

He notices Dorian's other hand leaving his side, a hint of movement to his left, and so he doesn't flinch when the flame bursts into life on the palm of it, illuminating them both in its flickering, red light.

Lavellan's eyes blink rapidly, a whisper of wetness gathering at the corners, when they adjust to the sudden brightness.

The world is made up only of a rapid interchange between the darkness of his eyelids, and Dorian's blown pupils.

Dorian exhales, long and exquisite through his slightly open mouth, then he swallows visibly, a shudder running through his body.

Lavellan can feel it clearly through the palm pressed to his face, to their still touching knees. He's careful not to move at all, knowing that his eyes must be just as large as Dorian's.

“You say these things sometimes,” Dorian says, his voice barely above a whisper. “That make me question the soundness of my own mind.”

He blinks, and Lavellan couldn't move right now, even if he wanted to, even if the war would depend on it.

“Things that make me question how you can be real.” Another swallow. “How you can be real, and still be with me.” Dorian moves closer still, until every word almost makes their mouths touch, when he continues, his eyes terribly bright, “That you keep choosing _me_.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and Lavellan moves without thinking, without paying any attention to the flames burning close to him. He forces his arm alongside Dorian's left one, between Dorian's body and the bed underneath them. His other one moves over Dorian's hip, both of his palms now on Dorian's back, chilly to the touch.

The flames wink out of existence, putting the both of them back into darkness.

The hand on Lavellan's face twitches, the thumb almost digging into the skin of his cheek, and Dorian's other hand clutches at the nape of his neck, still hot, almost burning him.

Lavellan moves his face close enough to Dorian's so that their cheeks touch, his mouth at Dorian's ear.

But there is nothing Lavellan can say right now, nothing that could do Dorian's words justice, and so he turns his head slightly, pressing his mouth to Dorian's cheek, pressing their bodies together until there is nothing left between them.

Until there will never be anything between them ever again.

Their breathing slows, their chests expanding and shrinking in turn.

This night, no nightmares warp Lavellan's dreams, and no sudden restlessness takes hold of Dorian.

And for the first time in a long while, they both sleep peacefully.


	2. Chapter 2

An uneventful day passes, and Lavellan is dozing in front of his desk, when Dorian enters their quarters, his boots hitting the stones of the floor with far more force than necessary.

It's a very effective way to be awoken from a restful doze, even before Lavellan notices the frustration radiating off of him, the hint of tenseness to his movements.

Dorian approaches the bookshelf next to Lavellan's desk, pretending to be interested in reading the titles of the many tomes, when Lavellan has no doubt that he knows them all by heart.

“I feel — now that we had this... enlightening talk about your vallaslin — it is only fair, that you get to ask the next intrusive question,” Dorian says with studied carelessness, facing the shelf.

Lavellan wonders at his choice of words, and at the mean edge to it all. 

Something must have unsettled Dorian deeply, after yesterday's peaceful night, and now he has decided that they will both suffer for it. Lavellan repeats their conversation inside of his head, trying not to shy away from the still sore topic of his vallaslin — Dorian trembling in his arms when Lavellan mentions both of them confronting his father together, in an unspecific moment in their future. His reaction after, when Lavellan laid bare his heart to him.

As if he did not quite believe Lavellan.

Despite the painful realisation, he still manages to keep his face and voice neutral when he asks, “Is that so?”

Dorian laughs, and yes, Lavellan is not imagining the ugliness lurking underneath Dorian's flashy entrance. He turns to Lavellan with great flourish. “But of course! That _is_ how a relationship works, isn't it?”

The way he says 'relationship', you could think he was talking about Venatori or Orlais, Lavellan notes, tilting his head. He refuses to answer the poisonous question, refuses to hand Dorian any means that he could use to sabotage the both of them. He could halt Dorian right now, confront him about his doubts regarding their shared future — but something stops him, maybe a twisted kind of curiosity.

Dorian huffs in annoyance, rolling his eyes. He comes to stand next to Lavellan's chair, balancing his hip on the edge of the desk, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Lavellan leans back in his chair, his hands loosely clasped together in his lap — purposely relaxed in the face of Dorian's defensive stance.

There is no visible acknowledgement of this on his face, and Dorian's voice is blank when he elaborates, the smile on his lips entirely condescending. “ _If_ I were to humbly offer my advice, you could ask me about _my_ decorations of choice.” He tilts his chin upwards, a dark gleam in his eyes. “You have always been so absurdly enamoured with my hair and moustache, one would think you'd have inquired about it a long time ago.”

Lavellan blinks.

Dorian's smile turns sharp. He opens his mouth—

The sound of the chair scraping over the carpet is not loud or grating, but still Dorian's mouth closes again, when Lavellan stands up. It remains closed, when he moves close to Dorian, pushing their hips together until he has Dorian trapped against the desk, one of his legs between Dorian's thighs.

Lavellan rises his left hand, absently grateful that the magic bound to it isn't paining him today, isn't making thinking difficult.

Dorian's eyes flicker to it once, before settling impassively on Lavellan's face again.

“You chose this,” Lavellan says quietly, while he traces over the coarse hair on Dorian's upper lip. “And this, too,” he continues, deliberately scratching against the growth of the hair, from the nape of Dorian's neck to the top of his head.

Dorian's expression is frozen.

Lavellan lowers his voice, his touch on the back of Dorian's head becoming more gentle. “You made yourself look less your father,” he says calmly, and Dorian's eyes widen, confirming his observation.

Dorian is not the only one who has had to swallow curious questions, after all.

Lavellan says, voice firmer now, “You made yourself look less like him, I think, because you thought that rejecting his views and leaving Tevinter behind wouldn't be enough to distance yourself from him.”

A shaky inhale, Dorian's eyes impossible wide now.

Not in amazement of Lavellan's cleverness, he realises, his chest becoming heavy.

Dorian is _scared_.

It's in every frozen part of his body, in the unnatural lines at his eyes and mouth, and for a moment, Lavellan is afraid he will either slip right off the edge of the desk or bolt for the stairs.

Both seem equally possible.

Whatever story Dorian had prepared as an answer, it had obviously been far away from the truth, and Lavellan is angry at himself for acting so rashly, for speaking his mind before stopping for even a moment to _think_.

He wanted to show Dorian that he wasn't stupid, that he could keep up with him.

And now he has carelessly trampled over Dorian's carefully built facade, without even thinking about the cracks he _knows_ have always been there.

Lavellan clenches his teeth, looking away from Dorian's blanched face, from the hurt visible on the edges of it.

He lets his arm fall back to his side, taking a step back, a clumsy apology forming in his mouth.

It makes Dorian come alive again with a small sound that tears right into Lavellan's heart. He grabs Lavellan's hips, switching their positions so that Lavellan is the one pushed against the edge of the desk, Dorian in front of him.

Lavellan lets himself be manhandled without resisting, aware that the hands on him are shaking, that he has somehow made Dorian downright _afraid_. When he doesn't attempt to put space between them again, Dorian seems to relax slightly. His hands leave Lavellan's hips, coming to rest tensely at his sides.

"You—“ Dorian rasps, deep lines on his forehead. He swallows. “You knew—“ Another pause, another swallow, something like desperation flickering across his face. “ _How_.” 

It isn't a question.

Lavellan has never seen Dorian like this, so confused and bewildered. His eyes are wide, his mouth open, so that he can draw enough air into his lungs, into his heaving chest. He looks _lost_.

Lavellan feels his own face crumble, and the ache in his chest spreads through his body, until he hurts, and regrets his words with every fibre of his being. He has to say something, and he has to say it now, but there's only chaos in his head. “I didn't know... I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to _know_ ,” he whispers, hating the feeble sound of his own voice.

Dorian stares at him, expression unchanged.

Lavellan doesn't think that Dorian has even heard him, that Dorian is even still _here_.

“Dorian— ma vhenan”, Lavellan pleads, horrified at his helplessness in the face of Dorian's despair. He presses his palm against Dorian's pale face slowly, carefully. 

Dorian gasps at the contact, blinking rapidly. Recognition flickers in his eyes, making Lavellan almost dizzy with the relief that rushes through him.

Dorian tumbles forward with none of his usual grace, leaning his head on Lavellan's shoulder. His forehead is chilly against the skin of Lavellan's throat. 

Moving carefully, he hugs Dorian close to him. Lavellan swallows, opening his mouth—

“Don't you dare apologise,” Dorian says roughly.

Lavellan falls silent, biting his lower lip to keep the apologies from tumbling from it. Slowly, the panicky beat of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, calms down.

Dorian rights himself again, without jostling Lavellan's arms away, his own still tense at his sides. Dorian looks away for a moment, his eyes pressed shut tightly, voice nothing more than a weak whisper. “What... Do you...” He swallows, looking back at Lavellan with his face twisted, marred by deep, deep lines, and Lavellan's breath hitches.

Broken laughter, followed by a shake of Dorian's head, and by his hoarse voice. “It's so _utterly foolish_. A boy, playing at being a man, pretending to differ from the roots that formed him, playing at being better—”

Lavellan doesn't let him finish the sentence, cradling Dorian's face in his hands once more, forcing it closer to his own until Dorian's too bright eyes are looking back at him again.

Dorian can doubt the workings of the entire world and whatever lies beyond. But Lavellan will not let him doubt this.

He pours this resolution, and all the stupid, hurtful, fantastic things Dorian makes him feel into his voice, sounding hoarse. “I don't think any less of you, Dorian. How could I?”

Dorian stares back at him, too still, not breathing.

“You are unbelievably brave in all of your decisions,” Lavellan manages to press out through the emotions that are choking him, like there's a corporeal phantom with ice cold paws around his throat. 

A hitched intake of breath.

Lavellan strokes over Dorian's cheeks with his thumbs, drawing aborted circles on the soft skin there. Under Lavellan's index fingers, resting on the skin next to Dorian's ears, he can feel Dorian's pulse jumping like a fleeing animal. 

But he is not done yet.

“You are brave, every day you stay here, every day that you choose to fight at our side,” he tells him, voice hushed. His palms on Dorian's face twitch.

Neither of them acknowledges the wetness on Dorian's cheeks — Lavellan spreading it with his fingers without hesitation — or the wobbling of Lavellan's voice when he whispers, “You are brave every day that you choose to stay with me.”

Lavellan cannot say who makes the broken sound then or who of them is the first to smash his mouth onto the other's. But they meet with a desperate need for each other, falling back onto the table underneath Lavellan. Their noses bump hard enough to hurt, teeth clicking against each other, splitting an unfortunate lip caught between.

Their hands are rough, fingers clawing at and digging into whatever part of the other they can reach, but it's not about uncovering skin — their efforts are far too crude for that.

If Lavellan could get enough air into his lungs right now, he would waste it on a laugh, because Dorian seems to be driven by the same primal need he usually berates Lavellan for. 

There's really nothing controlled or reserved about Dorian now, and a distant, dark feeling of satisfaction spreads through Lavellan. He grips a handful of Dorian's hair into a fist, holding him fast while he thrusts his tongue into Dorian's mouth. 

Dorian growls, biting down, not hard, only enough to be felt, only enough to make a point.

Yes, they are both equal in this, in the need to mark each other — however irrational it may be — seeking to assure themselves that this is real, that they are both here, right now.

Together.

Lavellan sucks and bites at him, mouth, chin, and throat, and Dorian is no better, no less desperate. 

They separate only when lack of air forces them to stop. Dorian is leaning over Lavellan, on his still trembling arms, his fingers fisted in Lavellan's hair, watching him with wide, dark eyes.

His face is flushed, his skin sweaty and bruised, hair a mess.

Lavellan knows that he looks just as dishevelled, lying on the desk, greedily sucking air into his lungs, his fingers flexing on Dorian's shoulders.

Dorian falls onto him then, as if the last of his energy has abruptly deserted him.

Lavellan welcomes the sudden weight, hugging Dorian close to his chest.

“I forget sometimes,” Dorian whispers hoarsely into the skin of Lavellan's right temple. “That there is a sharp mind belonging to that brutish body of yours.”

Lavellan exhales loudly, startled and equally breathless. 

If that is all Dorian will dish out in retaliation for Lavellan's thoughtlessness, then he will gladly take it. The beginning of a smile on Lavellan's tingling lips, and he tugs at Dorian's hair until Dorian stops hiding his face from him, until they are both looking at each other again.

Dorian's eyes are half-closed, a spark visible in them that never fails to spread fire through Lavellan's blood, more intense and all-consuming than the rush he sometimes experiences during a fight could ever hope to be. The dark head is hopelessly tousled, the hairs of his moustache askew, and there's a wry, mischievous grin stretching Dorian's bruised lips.

Lavellan has to swallow repeatedly until he can voice the words that suddenly seem to be stuck in his throat. “I'll make sure to remind you frequently from now on, so you don't forget it again,” he promises him in a whisper.

Dorian nods, cradling Lavellan's head with one searing palm, a hint of teeth visible through his smiling mouth. “You do that,” he says softly.

 

* * *

 

A crick in his neck tells Lavellan that he has observed the sparring Inquisition soldiers for long enough already.

He stretches, away from the ring fence he has been leaning on, nodding at the other spectators.

Lavellan gets a quiet farewell in return, nods, waves, and mumbled “Sers” and “Inquisitors”, all of their eyes intent on the current match.

Harding dodges the strike aimed at her head, using her momentum to retaliate, her own wooden sword hitting the meaty part of her opponents left hip with a dull thud.

The other fighter — a boy really, too young for war — stumbles slightly, and Lavellan is not the only one who winces in sympathy.

Lavellan tears his eyes away before he idles for even longer here.

He heads for the side-entrance of the main hall, but he's barely out of earshot of the fighting-ring when he slows his steps again.

A woman is approaching him on his right, her steps sure, a black cloak with a colourful pattern covering her from shoulders to shoes. The material is long, almost long enough to touch the ground.

Her strides are short but purposeful, her shaven head held high. 

She's a leader, Lavellan has no doubt of that — just not of what. He's pretty sure that he would remember seeing somebody with so much presence around.

“Greetings, Inquisitor,” she says with a hint of a nod and an accent that he cannot place.

 _A leader without much interest in overt decorum_ , Lavellan thinks, relieved. He usually prefers to have someone with him, in these sort of meetings, to help him when the situation overwhelms him.

He nods at her, more pronounced than she did, his arms loosely at his sides. “Greetings to you as well.”

Of course she could be hiding any sort of weapon on her, and Lavellan would only be able to tell once she is already lunging with it at him, but —

He gets no sense of danger from her. Still, he has made sure to keep close to the wall on his right, making sure that nobody will be able to surprise him from behind.

 _She seems more like the type to have already attacked me if she really wanted to do me harm_ , he decides, taking note of the prominent lines at her mouth and her eyes. 

She is not old enough for them to be natural signs of ageing.

With anyone else, the pause in their conversation would have already become awkward, but it is obvious that her dark eyes are inspecting him just as carefully as he is considering her.

Suddenly, Lavellan wishes that he was wearing his armor right now. In the thin material of his clothing, his pitiful state is even more obvious. Despite his best efforts, missing muscles and fat seem to return to his body only frustratingly slowly.

Whatever she can see in him seems to be enough. She tilts her head slightly to her right. “This is my daughter, Sylvanna,” she says, and Lavellan is surprised by the small frame at her side that he only now notices, the dark curls of the girls' head.

He blinks, confused by his frightening lack of attention, until he spots the small upwards tilt to the woman's mouth.

 _Magic, some sort of enchantment probably_ , he guesses, calmed by the thought.

At least his senses are not deserting him now as well.

Lavellan crouches low onto his knees, when he realises why the woman is only introducing her daughter, and not herself. He keeps his arms loosely on his legs, his voice quiet and friendly. “Hello, Sylvanna.”

The girls looks at him with wide eyes, but she doesn't try to vanish back into the folds of her mother's cloak, and Lavellan will take that as a good sign. After another moment of silence, he glances up at the woman, and a shake of her head answers his unvoiced question.

“Sylvanna is only learning the common tongue now, but she still wanted to meet you,” the woman says, one of her hands stroking gently over the girl's head.

With her cloak, Lavellan is unable to read her posture, but there is an undertone to her voice now, a tenseness to it. It might be disapproval or maybe she is afraid, he isn't sure.

Lavellan smiles at Sylvanna, before focusing his attention on the mother again, ignoring the returning ache in his neck. 

He keeps his voice carefully neutral, when he tells her, “Alright, here I am.” He would wave a hand at her to go on, but he doesn't want to accidentally scare her child.

A wry smile tells him that he has judged her correctly, earlier. “My Sylvanna has heard that you have many scars.” Her hand strokes over her daughter's hair again, her eyes intent on him. “She would like to see them.”

Lavellan blinks, and his toes dig into the ground underneath him.

This isn't the weirdest thing he has ever been asked to do, not by far — nobles seem to have too much fantasy and far too little shame — but he wasn't expecting anything like this. He tilts his head, studying the mother closely, but he might as well be staring at her boots, for all that he's getting from her.

His eyes fall on Sylvanna, and even though it didn't seem possible before, her eyes widen even more. Her hands, fisted in her mother's cloak, flex.

 _The situations I get myself into_ , Lavellan thinks wryly, and his fingers reach for the first button of his vest. He doesn't have anything to hide, anything to be ashamed of, he tells himself.

When the material bares his chest and shoulders, Sylvanna gasps, a barely there sound, almost swallowed by the going-ons around them.

Lavellan places the vest on his thighs, resuming his earlier stance.

He sort of expected it, so he doesn't flinch when one of the girl's chilly hands lands on his left upper arm, the fingers of her other one tracing over the scarring of the frostbite there.

His ears pick up a soft inhale from the woman, and he glances up at her, noting the slight downwards turn to one corner of her mouth, the forward tilt to her upper body.

Lavellan shakes his head, barely noticeable, blinking twice at her. When her posture straightens again, and she doesn't say anything, he's sure that she understood him. He looks back at Sylvanna, at her squinting eyes, her lips, firmly pressed together — a picture of pure concentration.

“Despair demon,” he says quietly, and when her dark eyes focus on his face, he smiles again, almost a reflex.

Her mother says something then, probably translating what he just said. The way Sylvanna's face contorts, her mouth a grim line, a frown on her forehead, tells him that she has far more knowledge about demons than she should have for somebody so young.

She looks at him again, her head tilted to the side, while one finger traces over the frostbite once more.

Lavellan manages to keep the smile on his face, but he turns his upper body a bit, enough for her to notice the gashes on his side.

When her eyes instantly move to them, the finger falling away from the frostbite, he cannot help but feel relieved.

Maybe he hasn't yet accepted it as a part of himself yet after all.

“A starving bear,” he tells her, when her eyes look at him once more. Again, her mother translates, and Sylvanna nods seriously at him in understanding.

She leans back slightly then, the hold she has on his upper arm steadying her.

Lavellan watches her eyes, how they seem to jump from one scar to the next.

 _Lingering on the more pronounced ones_ , he guesses. _Or just the more interesting ones._

She points to one on his chest. 

“Unlucky fall,” he answers with a wry smile. The mother translates and Sylvanna nods again, still so terribly serious it makes Lavellan's heart ache. She moves behind his back then, but he doesn't tense, his eyes studying the mother now.

A warming finger pokes low at his side, between his third and fourth rib. “Bandit,” he tells the mother, watching her closely as she repeats the word in their language. Even with the cloak covering her, her posture seems too straight, undeniably tense.

He wonders where this will lead, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

The finger traces over a long gash on his back, and Lavellan says dryly, “Fell asleep when I really shouldn't have.”

For a moment, there's almost something like the beginning of a smile on the woman's lips when she translates, but it is gone again quickly.

Sylvanna touches the scar again, very carefully, whispering something, and Lavellan swallows.

She moves back to her mother's side again, one of her hands clutching at the cloak.

An unnecessary action — the woman's attention has not left her even once.

They speak with each other then, their words smooth and with a particular rhythm to it. Lavellan doesn't know why, but he thinks of the sea, of its rolling waves.

The mother is leaning forward to her daughter now, Lavellan notices. She doesn't gesticulate, but from the grim line of her mouth, and the short glance that she throws his way, it is very obvious that she is unhappy, even though the tone of her voice remains steady, as far as he can tell.

Sylvanna's face is stern, nothing childlike to it. She tugs at her mother's cloak once, before letting go of it, shaking her head.

She turns to Lavellan again, moving forward a step, and he can't help but tense.

“Now that you have shown her your scars,” the woman says, very carefully. She doesn't look unhappy anymore — only tired. 

_Defeated._

“Sylvanna wants to show you hers as well,” she finishes, her voice rough.

Lavellan can feel his eyes widen.

He looks back the girl, avoiding the mother's piercing eyes. _No wonder she was tense the entire time_ , Lavellan thinks, staring at Sylvanna's grim, small face. He notices the tremble of her fingers, at the bottom of her bright blouse.

 _Now_ his senses are screaming at him, his ears nearly deaf with the alarm ringing inside of his head.

Slowly, Sylvanna's fingers itch upwards.

There is no Cullen to interrupt with a sudden, urgent matter, that the Inquisitor must attend to immediately. No delicate cough or musical laugh from Josephine to divert attention. No booted heel on his foot, followed by a pointed stare from Leliana to save him from this.

Just Lavellan, the Inquisitor, who — faced with the brave little girl in front of him — has to fight the urge to scale the wall behind him and run.

He presses the sweaty palms of his hands onto the material on his legs, painfully aware that the wrong reaction could _destroy_ her.

The material lifts, ending just above her stomach.

Lavellan stops breathing.

It looks like something has tried to cleave Sylvanna into half. Scar tissue runs from one side of her stomach to the other, right through her bellybutton. 

_It's as broad as my thumb_ , he thinks, and his stomach turns.

A closer look reveals the edges to be jagged, rough. _Not a sword or dagger_ , he decides almost absently. An animal, maybe? A demon?

It's so bright, so horribly _wrong_ on somebody so small.

A soft sound escapes his lips, and he hopes it will not be mistaken for pity.

He meets Sylvanna's eyes again, wide but unafraid. Lavellan moves his right hand towards her — not by much, just enough to show his intent.

She nods almost immediately, if a bit jerkily.

The scar is hard and rough against his index finger.

Lavellan is no healer. The only knowledge that he has comes from the battlefield.

But he has no doubt about this: this is not a wound you sustain and _live_.

He will not think about that now, though, not with the responsibility- burden- _duty_ placed on him in this moment.

They have nothing in common, but they are still the same, she and him.

When he looks back up at her face, the smile does not come easily, but it feels all the more right for it.

“Look,” Lavellan says, quietly but firm. He gently takes her hand with his other one, placing it back onto the frostbite on his upper arm. His index finger traces over her scar while he presses her palm onto the puckered skin marking him.

She does look, blinking rapidly, from his finger on her scar, back to her hand on his. When her dark, dark eyes settle on his face again, he nods once, his voice rough. “We are the same. We are warriors. We _survive_.” His voice catches on the last word. 

And even though they do not speak the same language, her eyes are wet.

Very slowly Sylvanna tilts her head to the side, her eyes moving to her mother's face.

Lavellan follows her gaze, remaining just as still.

The woman's lips are parted, her teeth pressed together just as hard as her closed eyes, her body bowed slightly.

Sylvanna exclaims something, lunging for her hurting mother. Her hands fist in the material of the long cloak, before she hides her face in it.

Almost immediately the hand comes back to rest on her daughter's head again, and when Lavellan focuses on her face, there is almost nothing of her pain visible anymore. She's calm — apart from the swirl of emotion in her eyes that she cannot hide.

Lavellan presses his shaking palms back onto his thighs, the urge to run, to flee, back in full force.

Did he do the right thing?

Did he say the right thing?

Did he—

A small upwards twitch to the woman's mouth, and then her attention is back on her daughter, her words quiet and soothing.

Suddenly Lavellan can breathe again, and he inhales unsteadily.

Sylvanna's face turns to him when her mother stops speaking. Her dark hair is hiding her almost as effectively as her mother's cloak now, but there is no mistaking the shaking of her body, the wet lines on her face.

Or the hesitant, beautiful smile on her mouth when she nods at him, before hiding back into her mother's side.

The woman picks her up then, settling her daughter high up on her hip, one arm coming around her middle while the other one cradles Sylvanna's head to her shoulder. The dark cloak swallows Sylvanna, hiding her almost completely from any wandering eyes.

She is a quiet crier, and Lavellan wishes that he did not have to ever learn that.

Lavellan inhales deeply before meeting the woman's eyes again. He chooses to remain crouched.

“Something wearing a friend's body tried to sacrifice her to a false god,” she says quietly, voice strained. There is a tenseness around her eyes again, something off about her lifted chin.

Lavellan's head is slow to put the pieces together, still reeling as it is.

But he's pretty sure that she's challenging him, daring him to question her about the fatal wound on the body of her very much alive daughter.

He meets her stare evenly, his voice calm. “I'm glad that she is alive.” 

The woman regards him for a moment. Then she bows to him, low, the shaking bundle in her arms hugged closely to her.

When she is gone, after another long look at him, Lavellan edges backwards, closing his eyes, and letting his back fall against the cool stone behind him.

He's still aware of the sounds around him, but nobody bothers him, hidden in the shade of the wall, and he's glad for it.

Whoever the woman is, he needs to tell Leliana about her, even if there's only a small chance that she isn't already aware of somebody so powerful in their midst.

But first, Lavellan really needs some peace and quiet. He needs to rest.

“Already eyeing someone else? It seems as if I cannot let you out of my sight even for a moment,” Dorian drawls right next to him. 

He blinks up at Dorian, casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Lavellan wasn't aware of his approach. “A bit young for me, isn't she?” he jokes, tone dry, wanting to hide the uncomfortable feeling that is making his skin itch, his stomach turn.

Dorian snorts. “Don't play cute with me. I was talking about the woman, obviously, not the child.”

Lavellan waves a hand at Dorian, trying to sound cheeky. “Well, you know that I like them...” He trails off, biting his tongue, frustrated with himself.

Dorian chuckles, quick to continue where Lavellan left off. “Cultivated? Elegant?” He puts a hand onto his chest, canting his hips slightly. A teasing curl on his lips, voice a deep purr when he says, “Exotic?”

The smile on Lavellan's lips wavers, despite his best efforts.

There is a pause. 

Then, Dorian steps closer to him, close enough until his left leg is touching Lavellan's right arm. 

Lavellan shivers slightly. Until now, he wasn't even been aware of how chilled his skin had become.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks, voice soft and low, lines on his forehead.

Lavellan swallows. He wants to latch himself onto Dorian, until he can forget about war, its victims, small, lifeless bodies — but they are out in the open, people going abound their business all around them.

He sneaks the fingers of his right hand under Dorian's trouser leg, moving the hem of a sock, searching. When his fingers find warm skin and coarse hair, Lavellan presses his palm against it all, sighting soundlessly, calming with the contact.

He opens his mouth, but he doesn't even know where to begin.

Lavellan's head falls back against the wall with a dull thud, his eyes falling shut in frustration.

“A curious woman,” Dorian muses after a moment — a simple observation that leaves it to Lavellan to ignore or to answer it.

Lavellan hums, keeping his eyes shut, and his voice at a murmur, aware of their lack of privacy. “Blood mage, I think. Or something very much like it.” In his head, the patterned, concealing cloak flashes, and dances to the wind.

Apparently, he wasn't wrong, when he thought a weapon could be hidden underneath it.

The leg under Lavellan's hand shifts slightly, and Dorian makes a thoughtful noise. “That sounds very curious indeed. Do you think she would talk about her choice of magic, if asked?”

The 'by me' remains unspoken, and Lavellan smiles. He doesn't need to look up at Dorian, to know that there is a gleam in his eyes.

“Don't,” Lavellan says, quiet and serious. “She is somebody who will do anything to protect those close to her, and I rather like you in one piece.” He scratches at Dorian's leg under his hand, over skin and hairs.

A shiver travels through Dorian, and Lavellan enjoys the feeling of it against his shoulder, under his palm.

“A very dangerous enemy,” Dorian agrees, equally quiet. Another pause, then, Dorian's hand gently falls onto Lavellan's shoulder, and he adds thoughtfully, “But a very useful ally.” 

Lavellan hums in agreement, smiling.

Sometimes, it's almost frightening, how well they understand each other.

For a moment, he turns his head to the hand on his shoulder, breathing in deeply.

“It's wrong,” he sighs tiredly. “This war is bad enough, but children shouldn't have to suffer because of our mistakes. Children shouldn't _die_.” He swallows, inhaling shakily.

The hand on his shoulder tightens its hold, fingers digging into him, and Lavellan exhales, long and deep, until his chest aches for breath.

There were no orphans in his clan, no children without somebody to take care of them. He didn't know what an orphan was until he came into contact with humans, their ideas and concepts.

Lavellan doesn't want to think about children left on their own or about small, lifeless bodies.

The hand leaves his shoulder, a finger pointedly poking at the side of his head.

Confused, Lavellan leans forward, until his shoulder and back are the only thing left against the wall.

Dorian hums, pleased, and his hand moves to Lavellan's neck, his fingers stroking over it in small, simple movements.

Lavellan looks up then, but the sun has moved, and is now standing high above them, blinding him.

“I don't want some horrendous insects to seek shelter in that unruly mop you call hair. You would only end up bringing them back into our bed,” Dorian says softly, fondly, without an edge of mocking.

Lavellan chuckles. He treasures Dorian's touch, every moment, every instance of it — this time all the more, because even with the protective wall behind them, they are still out in the open, where anybody might see.

For Dorian to touch him here, right now, and for him to allow Lavellan's touch in return—

He doesn't have the words to explain the rush of feelings inside of his chest, to describe the warmth pooling low in his stomach. 

They stay like this for a while, watching the people milling around them. If anybody stares at them, Lavellan doesn't notice.

Suddenly, the caress on his neck stops, and Dorian tenses beside him. “Do you want children of your own?” he asks, voice toneless. 

Carefully so.

Inwardly, Lavellan sighs. Maybe they don't really understand each other after all.

 _No, that's not it_ , he scolds himself, squinting against the glare of the sun. Thanks to it, Dorian's face is hidden from him.

Children aren't something they have ever talked about, but Lavellan should have expected that this is another open wound for Dorian.

Another invisible scar on him.

Even though it hurts his eyes, he keeps squinting up at Dorian, his voice steady. “I have never thought about it, to be honest.”

Lavellan scratches on the skin of Dorian's leg again. He tilts his head then, smiling wryly. “But I think there are already enough orphans in this world, wouldn't you agree?”

A sharp inhale and the fingers on his neck tighten, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave a flaring ache behind.

After a moment, the nails withdraw, but the fingers remain there, almost like a vice.

A warning for voicing something that they are both afraid of?

An assurance, that it will not come to it?

Lavellan isn't sure, but coming from Dorian, he will happily accept both.

The fingers press back down onto his neck, and Dorian sighs. “Please, put your vest back on, amatus, or the people will begin to think that what has begun with your feet will soon have you wandering Skyhold stark naked.”

Despite the clammy feeling in his stomach, a laughs startles out of Lavellan. 

He stands up onto unsteady and aching legs, before putting his vest back on, though he doesn't bother with the buttons. He pretends to stumble into Dorian then, one last chance to press his palms onto the elaborate clothing covering his chest, to touch greedily. “I'm sure all the blame for that would fall on your shoulders,” Lavellan says with a raised eyebrow, his hands moving slowly down to Dorian's hips.

Dorian groans, tugging at Lavellan until they are both moving to Skyhold's side entrance. “I can already hear Giselle nagging away at me,” he complains, shuddering dramatically.

They reach the stairs, and he throws a look at Lavellan out of the corner of his eyes, scowling. “And you are not helping at all. Look at you, not even dressed properly.” One of his hands moves to Lavellan's open vest, making the sides of it flap. “They will think I have just had my evil ways with you!”

Lavellan grins, swallowing yet more laughter while concentrating on the steps underneath his feet, afraid he might end up slipping.

When they arrive at the doors leading into the hall, he falls against one side of it, throwing one arm over his face. “Oh, Lord Pavus!” he calls, and Dorian's eyes widen almost comically. “Do your worst,” Lavellan continues, quieter, lowering his arm again. He bats his eyelashes at Dorian for added effect.

Dorian shakes his head at him. “I don't even know you,” he grumbles, but one corner of his mouth is twitching. He looks at Lavellan once more, a small smile curling his lips, before he sighs theatrically, entering Skyhold's castle.

From inside, Dorian's voice reaches him, a note of disbelief to it. “I'll never be seen with you in public again!”

Lavellan laughs, his arms comfortably behind is back, his eyes wandering over the yard to see if anyone is even paying attention to them.

A few heads turn away rather quickly, but there are also some who smile at him. Lavellan waves back at Harding when he spots her, apparently done with her match.

When he follows Dorian inside, there's a slight spring to his steps.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Lavellan is sprawled in the chair behind his desk, scribbling crooked swords on a boring report when Dorian comes to stand in front of him, sounding annoyed. “Where did you put the book?” 

“Nowhere,” Lavellan says absently, focused on his very important work, carefully drawing another line.

Dorian places one hand on the desk, fingers crooked into an aborted fist. It's a weird enough gesture to distract Lavellan, and the sword ends up crooked enough to look broken.

Lavellan frowns, looking up at Dorian's face.

Maybe he should have paid attention sooner, because there's a storm brewing behind Dorian's eyes.

“The book I left right here this morning. Where is it?” Dorian asks through clenched teeth, pointing to the left side of the desk.

The very empty, left side of the desk.

Lavellan sighs, tired after another long day of discussions with his advisors. “What kind of book was it?” Grudgingly he looks at all the shelves filled with them, and can't help but be annoyed. Sometimes, Lavellan feels like there are only books in their quarters, that there's barely anything of himself left inside of these rooms.

Dorian opens his mouth, lines gathering at the side of his eyes. A frown claims his forehead then, his mouth falling shut again. 

The pause drags on, and Lavellan _is not in the mood for this_. He meets Dorian's hostile gaze again. “I don't know, alright? I didn't take it, and I didn't move it.” 

When that only makes Dorian look even angrier, Lavellan stands up, putting them closer to eye-level. “Actually,” he adds before Dorian can say anything else. “There was no book there when I came back a few hours ago.”

 _So there,_ Lavellan thinks, hoping this will be enough for Dorian.

It isn't.

“Fine,” Dorian says, and obviously it is anything but, his posture tense and his hands stiff at his sides. He laughs then, a rough and ugly sound that makes Lavellan tense up. It hurts, Dorian calling him a liar in this way, like Lavellan was guilty right from the start.

Dorian turns his head deliberately, hands loosely crossed over his chest, pretending to be disinterested and calm. 

The ugly twist to his mouth makes Lavellan tense in anticipation of the lashing out that it is sure to follow now and he can't help but wonder if there's something he's missing here or if a fight was Dorian's purpose right from the beginning, if the book is just a convenient excuse. His stomach churns, and he grinds his teeth against the unsettling thought. 

Dorian shrugs languidly with one shoulder. “You might as well keep it now, since I'm sure that you are already done with defacing it beyond recognition with your marks of incomprehension, turning it effectively useless to me.”

Lavellan's eyes widen in disbelief. Sharp and searing is the feeling that pierces his chest, like a well-honed blade sliding through his lungs. When he next sucks air into his lungs, the sound of it is unnaturally loud in the silence between them, drawing even more attention to how shaky it is.

Dorian doesn't move, though there is a slight downwards twist to his lips.

But that could mean anything.

If he regrets his words, he is hiding it well.

Lavellan swallows, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides. It's not the first time someone has made fun of him for being unread, not by far.

But this is _Dorian_.

His nails dig into his palms, hard enough to leave marks.

Dorian, who reads aloud to him whenever he asks, seemingly never tiring of explaining even the most complex concepts to him, always rewarding his questions with passionate words and gentle touches.

Dorian, who still caries the Antivan book Lavellan had suffered through during unending, frustrating hours, in an effort to figure out how to help him with his alcoholism.

The words cut away at Lavellan all the more for it, burying themselves into the dark corners of his head, like small, poisonous daggers.

_He'll find somebody else, somebody who won't restrict him, somebody who can talk with him about Rivaini politics and Ferelden customs, somebody who'll—_

He stops the thoughts before they can become even worse, before they can do even more damage.

Lavellan swallows again, unclenching his hands, hoping that his voice will be steady, despite the heaviness inside his chest.

He has embarrassed himself enough already.

“I hope,” he says, speaking very slowly, and Dorian tilts his head slightly in his direction.

He does not meet Lavellan's eyes, and Lavellan doesn't know if that eases the sting of Dorian's words or just shifts the hurt to somewhere else. 

“That you will find your _book_ —“ The word turns into a curse in his mouth, and Dorian's right eye twitches, making the mole underneath it jump. “—and that it will keep you good company tonight.”

He forces his tense muscles to move, passing by Dorian without looking at him. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Dorian stiffen, almost flinch, but he won't— can't stop to think about it.

When he is halfway to the stairs, he pauses, feeling the need to explain himself. Not only to Dorian, but to himself as well. Lavellan looks at the heavy shelves surrounding him, at the complicated books filling them. 

Mocking him. His stomach turns into a miserable knot, and he hates himself for being so weak, for needing to tell himself: This is not a break-up. It's not permanent.

“I'm going to sleep somewhere else tonight,” Lavellan tells the air in front of himself without raising his voice. He doesn't have to — his words are strong, carrying into every corner of the room. 

He makes his legs move again, and when he reaches the first step, Dorian inhales loudly behind him.

Lavellan leaves without waiting to hear what he has to say — _if_ he has anything to say — making sure his usual silent feet will be heard this time.

Every step he takes down the stairs is heavy, and worse than the one before. 

He wants for Dorian to call him back, to apologise, to take back his poisonous words.

He wants for Dorian to leave him alone, to let Lavellan tend to the burning cuts inside of his chest.

At the bottom of the stairs, he realises that he has no idea where he will stay the night. Lavellan shivers, leaning his head against the door leading into the hall.

The hall where his throne stands.

Where he decides over life or death.

He almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Who can he go to? Who won't look at him funny, who won't— 

Lavellan pushes himself away from the door, drawing a hand over his mouth, a small flicker of relief kindling to life inside of him.

Varric won't ask why the Inquisitor had to flee from his own quarters.

 

* * *

 

Lavellan is right — Varric doesn't ask why Lavellen's knocking on his door this late in the evening.

Varric merely raises an eyebrow at him, and Lavellan resists the urge to shuffle awkwardly on his bare feet, his head carefully blank, apart from the acute awareness of the ache in his chest.

“Well, don't just stand there, come on in,” Varric says after a moment, ushering him into his surprisingly cosy quarters.

Lavellan tries to resist, but his eyes linger on the decorations on the walls, heavy banners and weapons, on the shelves filled with books and strangely looking items that he cannot place. He catches himself quickly, and stares at his feet instead, at the red rug underneath him. Tentatively, he wiggles with his toes, curious.

For some reason, Lavellan didn't peg Varric as someone with a liking for fluffy carpets, sure that Dwarves were all about cold, solid stone.

A few of these would fit perfectly into their quarters, and maybe then Dorian would finally stop complaining about his permanently cold feet. The beginnings of a smile fall right from his lips again, and he frowns, his teeth clenching when he remembers his reason for being here in the first place.

Varric sighs heavily. “By the Ancestors, looking at you would be enough to make even the best paid prostitute feel like crying!” He shoves Lavellan forward, in the direction of a set of chairs grouped around a table.

The dwarven-sized chairs and table.

Honestly, Lavellan is not even sure what he expected.

Varric is busying himself at the knee-high shelf next to the table, his back turned to Lavellan. After a moment of hesitation, he overcomes his culture shock, sitting down on a chair.

He shifts awkwardly for a while, but once he's figured out where to put his legs, it's not even uncomfortable. 

The clanging stops abruptly, and Varric looks at him over his shoulder, a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe I should ask first, before I pour you a drink.” He smiles sheepishly, voice lowering slightly. “You know, considering the circumstances and all.”

Lavellan mulls over his words for a moment, eyes on the dark bottle in Varric's hands.

He dislikes alcohol or anything else that slows his reflexes, dulls his senses. Always has and always will, and since he met Dorian, his dislike for it has only increased.

But this isn't about Dorian right now — it's about what _he_ wants.

Lavellan nods, managing a crooked smile. “Only if you give me the really good stuff.”

Varric chuckles, bowing slightly. “But of course, only the best for our leader.”

It's a smaller, white bottle that he carries back to the table, in his other hand a pair of glasses that clink against each other.

Lavellan catches a whiff of the clear liquid when Varric pours it into his glass, and makes a face at the intense smell.

This time, Varric laughs outright. “You better appreciate this one, Fennec. I had to deal with a lot of Cotorie lackeys to get my hands on it.” He takes a long swallow from his glass, wiping at his mouth when he is done, looking at Lavellan expectantly.

Well, Lavellan has never backed down from a challenge before, and he certainly won't start now. He tips his glass slightly to Varric, like he has seen the people in the tavern do, and takes a cautious sip.

It _burns_ its way down his throat, and he coughs loudly into his fist, the inside of his mouth tingling uncomfortably.

A heavy hand claps him onto his back, Varric's chuckle barely audible over Lavellan's coughing. “The next one will be easier,” Varric assures him.

They sit in silence for a while, nursing their drinks. 

It's tiring, trying not to think about the fight he had with Dorian or about Dorian's awful words, and when Varric pours himself his third one, Lavellan has only just emptied his first glass.

Bianca is lying to Lavellan's right, mounted on the centre of a shelf, held in a complex looking wooden bracket. He studies her closely, and somehow she looks even more difficult to handle than usually. 

He wonders at her position for a moment, before he realises that she would be visible from every corner of this room. Not like his greatsword or Dorian's staff, both usually kept away in a side-room.

Lavellan frowns at himself, for thinking about Dorian yet again.

“It's rude to stare at another man's girl like that, Fennec,” Varric drawls, sounding more amused than offended.

The chair seems suddenly a lot more comfortable than before, and Lavellan laughs, slipping down, deeper into it. He wriggles his toes, just because he can.

Varric takes another gulp from his glass, his eyes on Lavellan. After another moment, he asks carefully, “So, do you want to talk about it?” He leans closer, arms resting on the table, raising an eyebrow at Lavellan. “Or did you just come here to spurn my best whiskey?”

Lavellan makes a distracted sound, slowly spinning his glass, watching the light of the candles reflect in it.

A huffed chuckle, and Varric murmurs without any heat to his words, “Guess I could have answered that question myself.”

“Why did you pick _Fennec_ as my nickname?” Lavellan asks, looking at him with open curiosity.

It's not a very smooth way to switch topics, but he's sure that Varric won't mind.

The wide smirk on Varric's mouth tells him that he thought correctly. “Because you are both tiny with large ears,” he answers evenly, deep, amused lines at his eyes.

Lavellan's fingers slip from his glass, and he scowls at Varric.

“Now, now, you can put that pout away again, Fennec. I'm just having you on.” He chuckles, before clasping his hands in front of his face, leaning back in his chair.

Lavellan has seen Varric often enough like this to know what it means. He props his head up on one arm, curious to see what kind of story Varric will spin now.

“Have you ever seen a Fennec hunt?” Varric asks him, and Lavellan thinks for a moment before shaking his head. 

Varric hums, nodding to himself. “They are ruthless, vicious little buggers. One time, I saw three of them stalking a wolf, a monster easily four times their size!” Varric gestures wildly with his hands then, and Lavellan has always loved real stories, has always lost himself in them easily.

 _If this story is going where I think it's going, I might even be okay with being called Fennec_ , he thinks, a small smile on his lips.

 

* * *

 

After another three stories, each bloodier and even more ridiculous than the one before, Varric insists that they call it a night.

Lavellan's head is awfully sluggish, and he doesn't know if it's the the glass of alcohol inside of him or just the bone-deep tiredness he's feeling. He has no idea how to approach Varric about staying here the night, and any thoughts evade him well before he can grasp at them-

The sound of heavy fabric being moved draws his attention back to Varric.

There's a small alcove now, where before there had only been a dark red curtain. It contains a bed — a normal-sized one! — and a small night table.

Lavellan moans, a sound of utter relief, before moving over to the bed on heavy legs, falling onto it with the last of his strength.

His face is pressed into a wonderfully fluffy pillow, making it difficult to breathe, and he doesn't care at all.

“You think you are going to need a bucket later, Fennec?” asks Varric's voice next to him, and he mumbles into the softness underneath him in answer.

A huff. “You know what, I'm going to get one, just in case. Vomit is an awful smell to get rid of again.”

Fading footsteps, a moment of blissful silence.

Lavellan actually drifts off, until the loud clank of steel on stone wakes him again.

He tilts his head to the offender, focusing his blurry eyes on Varric, crouched next to him. “You going to be okay? And I'm not just talking about tonight,” Varric says evenly, concerned lines at his eyes and mouth.

Lavellan's lips stretch into the first real smile today. “Thanks,” he whispers, his voice rough, and he moves his head slightly in a nod. They'll move past this, whatever it was that made Dorian lash out like this. But... Lavellan can't imagine being the one to reach out this time, with the ache still thudding heavily in his chest. His lips try to even out then, but he's desperate to keep smiling, to show Varric that he'll be fine.

Varric hums, and the deep lines on his face ease a bit. “You two are giving me so many grey hairs, even my Carta dealings are beginning to look like a relaxing pastime in comparison,” he says, his lips curling upwards.

Lavellan can't help it, too curious, too eager for another distraction, asking sleepily, “Are they the reason you have a hidden lodging stashed away in your quarters?” 

Varric's eyes widen for a breath, his eyebrows climbing up on his forehead. Then his smile turns into a smirk, and he chuckles, low and quiet. “Got it in one.” He tilts his head, looking at Lavellan with a rueful smile. “Thanks to my position within the Merchant Guild, I have to deal with people the Inquisition doesn't need to be associated with.”

Lavellan thinks about that for a moment. He studies Varric's face, noticing the slight tension at the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he says evenly. “I trust your judgement.”

There's a satisfied gleam in Varric's eyes, though he sounds unsure when he speaks again. “You won't tell Cassandra about my little... secret, right? I mean, if it was anything to worry about, Leliana would have told her already.” He moves slightly closer, his voice quieter. “Don't you think so, too?”

There's definitely a pleading note in there now, and Lavellan laughs softly, grinning widely despite everything that happened. “I'm sure you are very good at persuading people to keep your secrets.”

Varric blinks at him. Then he huffs, and stands up, shaking his head. He's already a few steps away, when he mumbles, seemingly to himself, “Just as I said, ruthless little bugger...”

Lavellan thinks about calling after him, about reminding him of his excellent elven-hearing.

He's asleep before the thought is even fully formed.

 

* * *

 

Dorian and Lavellan don't speak with each other for the next two days. 

Lavellan keeps himself busy outside of their quarters, only returning when he knows that Dorian is away sulking in his alcove or already asleep. Or at least pretending to be asleep. Lavellan knows that it's pride that keeps him from seeking out Dorian, but these days he doesn't have much else to hold on to.

They do still lie in the same bed every night, but it's not very restful, both of them too mindful of staying on their own sides the entire time to really be able to relax.

It's only because of this lack of rest that Lavellan has just gotten his ass handed to him by Cassandra yet again, he's sure of it. 

“You are steadily improving, Lavellan. Not long, and you'll be fit enough to head out again,” she tells him with a small smile, barely out of breath.

Lavellan is also pretty sure that she's lying.

He grumbles at her in parting, heading back to their quarters for a quick washing, for a small moment to himself to nurse his stinging and slowly faltering pride. 

He spots Sera ahead of him, purposely moving towards him, and frowns.

She has her hands behind her back, and a spring in her steps. The smirk on her face makes him instantly wary.

Sera comes to stand in front of him, and if possible, her smirk widens even further. “Sooooo, you two lovebirds been missing anything?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Lavellan stares at her in confusion, his eyebrows drawn together.

She laughs, pushing a green book to his chest. 

He grabs at it automatically, blinking at her.

“You've gotta say thanks to Dorian from me,” Sera says, still so awfully chipper that it almost hurts his ears. 

“My table was being all...” She makes a waving gesture with one hand, before she continues, “...wobbly, and this thing fit right under the leg, until Bull got around to fixing it for me!” She claps her hand then, delighted, looking at him like she just played the best possible joke on him.

He breathes in deeply, keeping his face calm, his voice low, fighting against the urge to scream at her. “Do you have any idea...” Lavellan says, and the smile slips right off Sera's face. He crowds closer to her, pointing at her with one finger. “Do you have any idea about the trouble you have caused?” His voice rises on the last word, and he clenches his jaw, before he really does end up screaming over the entire courtyard.

Sera slaps his hand away, and pushes one of her fingers close to his face, hisses, “Well, if one stupid book is enough to get both of your knickers all twisted. Then— then—!” She draws a shaky breath into her chest, her eyes wild. “Then maybe you two should rethink that relationship thing of yours!”

Lavellan's hands clench around the book, pressing it against his chest, his teeth grating hard enough on each other to _hurt_.

Sera steps back, eyes pinched together, looking for a moment like she wants to say something else. 

Probably to push the knife in even deeper, to twist it, going for his vitals.

Just like Dorian had done two days ago.

Instead, she shakes her head, turning away from him with a noise of disgust.

Lavellan thinks with grim satisfaction that at least the spring in her steps is gone. His hands clench around the book again, and he wants to throw it after her, wants to yell at her that she's wrong.

But he can't.

It's nothing that he hasn't thought for himself already.

 

* * *

 

Nobody tries to stop him on his way to Dorian, mindful to stay out of his way once they got a look at his face, and he’s more than glad for it.

Lavellan is halfway up the rotunda, his fingers digging into the unyielding binding of the book. Absently he glances at the stupid thing to see if maybe it was something special after all, something that would somehow justify Dorian’s outburst.

He regrets it instantly, his purposeful steps coming to an abrupt halt, his raised boot falling heavily onto the next step of the winding stairs.

‘A Path of Warning and Harsh Promises’ the cover screams at him in thick, black letters, and Lavellan inhales deeply, shakily, recognition burning deep inside of him. He flips the book open hastily, hoping to be proven wrong, hoping to find a boring tale of some petty noble.

‘Blood of the dragon’ glares at him in the next instant, making his mouth turn into a thin line, before he focuses on another part, ‘tempted to harsh conduct’, and he’s dimly aware that his fingers are shaking now. Still, his eyes jump right into the next sentence, against his will, landing on, ‘fate of the Reaver’. Lavellan flinches, and his throat is dry when he reads, ‘power to be brutal above most others’.

He almost throws the book shut right then and there, but before he can make his fingers move, the next words burn themselves into him, ‘their destruction is first inward’.

Lavellan leans his forehead against the cool stonewall, concentrating on simply breathing. The book is heavy between his fingers, and his arms are shaking at his sides.

Not enough that Dorian insisted on branding him a liar, lashing out at him, aiming his words right at Lavellan's most glaring weakness and insecurity... and _this_ was the reason for it? Does Dorian trust him so little? Are his doubts about Lavellan's chosen way so severe, that he prefers to believe that Lavellan would rather get rid of a book and lie to him than to talk with him about it?

If Dorian even intended to talk with him at all. After all, why would he even try if he thinks that Lavellan is too stupid to understand the consequences of drinking dragon blood? Why would he choose talking when he apparently prefers to call Lavellan a liar and a thief?

The dull ache in his chest makes room for anger, familiar and comforting. Lavellan rights himself, throwing a dismissive glance at the book in his hands.

His breathing calms down, and he continues his way upwards, head blissfully empty.

Dorian actually looks surprised when Lavellan appears in front of his alcove.

He only remains sitting in his turned chair for a moment when Lavellan comes to stand in front of him, then he rises quickly. Frowning, his voice quiet, ever mindful of the people around them. “What—“

Lavellan pushes the damned book into his hands, not bothering to lower his voice, not even looking at him. “Maybe — _just maybe_ — you could have remembered the trick-playing elf that you've befriended while I was unconscious before treating me like shit,” he growls, swallowing the rest of his fury.

He turns around, leaving without waiting for Dorian's reaction, vicious satisfaction blooming low in his stomach.

Nobody bothers him on his way back to his quarters either.

Lavellan could almost get used to it.

 

* * *

 

The anger ebbs away all too quickly again, leaving him chilled and bleak in its absence, and by the time the candles are already burnt halfway down, Lavellan has bitten the inside of his right cheek bloody.

He gave up on doing anything productive this evening long ago, though he isn't sure how much time has really passed, since his awful interaction with Dorian.

Why is everything suddenly so difficult between them? Why doesn't he have the patience anymore, to coax Dorian back into himself, when another mood has taken him over? 

He swallows, his throat dry. Why doesn't Dorian trust him anymore?

Lavellan turns his head, groaning into the pillow underneath him. Sleep is only a distant idea right now, with his head buzzing like this, full of doubts and self-loathing. Which is probably the reason for why he's curled into himself like this, like a young one, afraid of his first real hunt in the forest. His fingers press onto his calves, bent against his chest.

He could have returned it with a raised eyebrow and a smile, could have joked about both of them turning a single book into such a pointless fight.

Instead, Lavellan acted like a sulking kid, and the worst of it is that it had felt _good_ in that moment. To have the upper hand, to have the last word for once.

It doesn't feel good anymore.

He hadn't even looked Dorian in the face, hadn't cared.

What if Dorian has finally had enough of him after this? What if he decides that he'll look for somebody smarter, someone who is not a childish bonehead? Lavellan turns his head away from the pillow again, trying to suck air into his aching lungs, but it doesn't help.

His chest hurts.

The sound of a door opening and then closing again makes his ears twitch.

Steps on the stairs leading up to their quarters.

He presses his eyes shut, biting on the skin inside of his right cheek yet again, the taste of blood heavy, and far too familiar in his mouth.

 _Dorian's_ steps.

Lavellan hasn't prepared any words, any apologies, too busy with losing himself in self-pity.

He digs his fingers into the material of his trousers, trying to breathe in and out, trying to _think_.

The beat of his pulse booms in his ears with every dull thud coming from the stairs. The sound drowns out every half-formed thought, scattering them before Lavellan has any hope to hold onto them. He sinks lower on the bed, until the blanket covers him almost completely.

Dorian stops at the top of the stairs, and Lavellan tenses. He opens his eyes again, even though all he sees is the material lying above him.

Nothing else, and for one terrifying moment he's back _there_ , trapped inside of his own head, lost, the Despair Demon's miasma filling it with its poison.

Then, the sound of rustling clothes, of buckles being undone.

Lavellan's nails dig into his calves, and he inhales shakily.

Naked feet first on carpet, then on stone. Dorian pauses at the side of the bed Lavellan is turned to.

 _Dorian's_ side of the bed. 

Lavellan didn't notice it before, that he moved to the side he always lies on. He's so used to them already, together, sharing a bed, he did so without even thinking about it.

And it might all be over soon, he understands now, his eyes and chest burning with the realisation.

After many long, terrible beats of his heart have passed, the mattress dips, and a hand appears under the blanket, gripping at one edge of it, slightly illuminated by the candlelight around them.

For one hazy moment Lavellan thinks about lunging for the lifting fabric, about wrapping himself up in it, but in the next instant he realises how ridiculous that idea is.

Dorian slips under the blanket then — actually underneath it. Lavellan is so startled by this that he uncurls himself, inching upwards until he can look at Dorian's face.

They are close enough so that the heavy material covers them both, enclosing them in muted darkness, but far enough away so that they did not touch when Lavellan just arranged himself.

A carefully chosen distance, he thinks, watching Dorian while Dorian watches him. 

Distantly Lavellan wonders if the advantage of the adapted elvish eyesight bothers Dorian right now, but two days of ignoring each other, and the fear of this being the last opportunity has Lavellan taking him in with almost overwhelming hunger. 

There's a hint of stubble on Dorian's cheeks, unusual enough to be the first thing that he notices, followed by the bruising heaviness under Dorian's eyes. Apparently it wasn't a very restful couple of days for him, either.

Lavellan wants to reach out, to touch, to trace over his skin, to follow these unsettling, new flaws on his face, the worry-lines on his forehead—

The very pronounced worry-lines on Dorian's forehead, seemingly almost etched into his skin.

He swallows, blinking rapidly.

A slight twitch at the corner of Dorian's mouth. “Are you hiding?” he asks, voice a warm, conspiratorial whisper.

Lavellan frowns, shaking his head in denial. When he realises that Dorian might not be able to see it, he murmurs hastily, “No.”

Probably too insistent with it all, going be the soft sound of amusement he gets in return. “In that case, I'm going to bring us back into the light again,” Dorian says quietly, a small trace of humour to it. His right arm, the one he is not leaning on, moves above them, and his hand takes hold of the blanket once more.

A pause, then Dorian speaks again, entirely serious now, “Is that alright with you?”

Lavellan swallows, taking a deep breath — realising too late how loud it will be, in this enclosed space between them. He exhales quickly again, making his voice firm. “Yes, just do it.”

Dorian does, pulling the blanket down until it only covers them up to their hips. He leaves his arm between them.

Lavellan props himself up on his right one, his other arm in front of him, mirroring Dorian's position.

They are still not touching.

Instead of worrying about what that could mean, Lavellan watches Dorian's blinking eyes, his changing pupils, adjusting to the light of the candles again.

Now it is Dorian's turn to inspect him, and Lavellan wonders about what he sees. 

Probably somebody just as tired, he decides, chewing on the inside of his mouth again.

Dorian's right arm moves, hand slowly reaching for Lavellan's face.

For a moment, he freezes, and then a warm palm is on his cheek, long, fine fingers spanning up to his temple and to his earlobe. 

Lavellan stops worrying at the damaged skin of his cheek.

“Why do we keep doing this to ourselves?” Dorian murmurs, his thumb stroking over the skin above Lavellan's eyebrow.

It takes Lavellan entirely too long to understand the words.

When their meaning finally sinks in, the next inhale lodges itself in Lavellan's throat and his eyes widen. Desperately, he reaches up with his left arm, grabbing the back of Dorian's hand tightly, pressing it down against his face.

If he can keep his hand there, he can keep Dorian with him, and Dorian won't leave him, won't end the relationship they've fought so hard for, he won't—

Dorian grimaces, moving closer to him, a soothing sound vibrating in his throat. “No, I didn't mean—“ He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning forward until he touches his forehead to Lavellan's.

Still tense, still too afraid, all Lavellan can do is stare at Dorian's mouth, at the tense line of it, keeping Dorian's hand trapped with his own.

“Why do we keep _fighting_?” Dorian asks, frustration clear in every word. His fingertips press against Lavellan's skin, and Lavellan wonders if Dorian can feel his pounding pulse underneath them.

Dorian leans back again, remaining close enough for them to share the breath between them. The deep lines at his mouth, at the corners of his eyes make Lavellan swallow again, his teeth pressing together. 

A hitched inhale, a shakiness to Dorian's voice, and Lavellan's heart _aches_. “Why do I keep hurting you?” Dorian asks, and all Lavellan can see are his eyes, too bright, too wide. 

Too many emotions in them.

Lavellan wants to _fix_ this... this rift between them, this rift that makes them take two steps away for every step that they move towards each other. But it's not one that he can simply wave his hand at, to be done with it, and the realisation burrows sharp and cold into his chest, like the tip of a dagger. He opens his mouth, not even sure what he wants to say. 

Dorian removes his hand from Lavellan's face, from his hold, and Lavellan grinds his teeth against the helpless sound burning in his throat. The hand curls into a fist between them, Dorian's eyes darken on it, the skin on his face twisted enough to make him almost unrecognisable.

Silence settles over them, heavy and suffocating. Lavellan doesn't reach out, doesn't give in to the urge to touch Dorian, even though his fingers itch with the need to soothe him. 

“My behaviour towards you...” Dorian says, voice rough. His lips press together, and the lines on his forehead deepen even further.

It's unsettling, seeing Dorian struggling with his words like this, and the dagger slides deeper into Lavellan's chest, making his fingers twitch.

“At best, I would describe it as erratic. At worst...” There is something helpless in Dorian's voice, and he falters, his eyes squeezing shut tightly.

Lavellan wonders at what is going through Dorian's head. If he, too, is looking back at their fights, examining them. The itch to touch lessens slightly, and Lavellan realises that maybe he was wrong to excuse Dorian's behaviour, that maybe it wasn't the withdrawal making him act like this.

“You walked out on me,” Dorian says suddenly, his words rushed. His eyes move up to Lavellan's face, though he shies away from making eye-contact. 

It's not an accusation, but still Lavellan's blinks, unsure about what brought this on. It's true that Lavellan prefers for an argument to be settled, always had. In this world, he is always too aware that every hunt, every mission, every fight could be his last. Every word could be his last. No, until a few days ago, he really had left the walking out entirely to Dorian, Lavellan realises, not unkindly.

 _Defacing it beyond recognition with your marks of incomprehension_. He has no trouble recalling Dorian's words, and even now they still sting. The corners of Lavellan's lips turn down, and he doesn't try to school his expression.

Dorian's gaze flicker to his mouth, before meeting his gaze, deep lines marring the skin at his eyes. “I made you walk away from me,” Dorian says quietly, “and instead of learning from it, I—“ He shakes his head, his voice turning sharp. “A small, pitiful part of me wants to keep _pushing_ , even now.” Dorian's fingers twitch, and Lavellan is sure that the trimmed nails are biting into the skin of his palm.

He wants to see when Lavellan will walk out for good, still convinced that they will not last. Lavellan inhales deeply, poking at Dorian's fist until it uncurls. If he looks closely enough, he can see crescent markings, slowly filling again with blood.

“You are not stupid. I never thought that of you.” Their eyes meet, and one corner of Dorian's mouth curls upwards slightly, his voice softening. “There is more than just the scholarly manner of intelligence — you are very adept at interpreting body language and at reading people... At reading me.” His smile turns slightly wistful. “Too good, sometimes.” Then he says sheepishly, looking at Lavellan's vallaslin, “Of course, your naivety is another matter entirely.” 

Lavellan huffs, the sting inside of his chest easing slightly. Yet, despite Dorian's typical non-apology, there's still something else that gnaws away at him with relentless hunger, a creature that will not be appeased so easily. “I'm not good at reading you,” Lavellan says quietly, and the amusement flees from Dorian's face again. “I was at a loss when you suddenly demanded a drink, and I _still_ don't know what got under your skin that badly.”

Dorian's mouth turns into a rueful, thin line, but at least he does not look away from Lavellan. “I—“ He falls silent again, frowning, a far away look in his eyes.

Lavellan shifts slightly, until his head is lying comfortably on the pillow. He has already waited so long for an answer, for an explanation — he can wait a bit longer still. The back of Dorian's hand is a warm presence against his fingers.

“I was in contact with another Altus, a friend of Felix and an acquaintance of mine. He wrote to me after Felix's death,” Dorian says haltingly, voice catching on the last word. 

Lavellan curls his fingers around Dorian's hand, remaining quiet.

Blinking, Dorian inhales deeply, something flickering through his eyes. “Navius inquired about my well-being, and about my work for the Inquisition. I will not lie, it was flattering, his attention, the interest in my opinions.” He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, his gaze is heavy, almost like a touch on Lavellan's face. “He was curious about you as well. About... us. I had assumed that Navius had been in contact with Felix before his passing, though I found it strange that he would share something so private without my permission.” There's a wistful quality to his words, when he says, “Perhaps an unlucky choice of words on Felix' part or maybe I had simply underestimated the reach of clucking tongues, I reasoned.”

Suddenly Dorian clutches at his hand, startling Lavellan, his eyes intense, piercing almost. “I never revealed anything that could be twisted against you or used to hurt you, please believe me,” he says quietly, desperately.

Lavellan nods, a hasty movement. “I know.” He manages a crooked grin. “Between the two of us, you are the clever one.”

Dorian shakes his head, disbelieving but fond. “No, amatus, this time I was the one blinded by naivety.” The corners of his mouth curl upwards, but it's not a smile, something almost painful to look at.

He doesn't know yet what this man did to Dorian to cause him to crave the dulling effects of alcohol. But the deep lines on Dorian's face, the roughness to his voice, almost like there's glass in his throat, make Lavellan's stomach churn with anger, make his arms itch for violence.

Dorian inhales deeply, his posture tense. “It took me far too long to recognise his farce for what it was, a ploy for information. I would have played into his hands for longer still if he hadn't become impatient.” He looks away from Lavellan. “Thankfully, Navius revealed his true intentions when he casually inquired about the location of your Clan.”

Lavellan stops himself from flinching, but only barely. Dorian's eyes are back on his face, intently studying his reaction, his mouth grim. “What did you do?” Lavellan asks quietly, keeping the other questions burning inside of his chest. Is that man being dealt with? Is he still a danger to his Clan, to the people that brought him up?

“I approached Leliana about my suspicions,” Dorian says, relaxing slightly.

Relief soothes the anger inside of Lavellan almost immediately. If Leliana is involved, he can be sure that this shem is going to get what he deserves. “What did she say?”

Dorian huffs, his voice dry but amused. “She scolded me for taking so long to approach her about this. She had been following my correspondence with Navius right from the beginning, of course.”

Lavellan hums, nodding slowly.

“You are not surprised?” Dorian raises an eyebrow at him, and the lines on his face soften.

“I haven't really thought about it before, but it makes sense that she keeps an eye on the letters sent to and away from Skyhold, doesn't it?” Lavellan shrugs, then frowns. “She is checking all letters, not only yours, right?”

Dorian smiles slightly. “There's no reason to mount a defence for my honour. You are correct: Your Spymaster is not discriminating in her surveillance.” The shape of his mouth evens out again. “She already knew about Navius' true intentions, and about his connections to the Venatori.”

Lavellan looks at the angry line of Dorian's mouth, at the disappointment visible in the slump of his upper body. He strokes over the back of Dorian's hand.

“I wonder if he has only been converted recently or if he has been trying to suss out Felix' true alliance from the very beginning,” Dorian says distractedly, staring off into the room, looking at nothing in particular.

Lavellan leaves him to this thoughts for a moment, his own eyes on Dorian's tense hand in his. No wonder Dorian had been upset enough to seek oblivion in a bottle. He caresses Dorian's hand again, drawing circles on it. At least he had not been gone enough to give in to his cravings. “You could have told me about this,” Lavellan says quietly, without raising his eyes. It could have saved the both of them a lot of trouble, a lot of sleepless nights.

Dorian sighs heavily, gripping back at Lavellan's hand. “I know.” Lavellan feels Dorian's gaze on his face, meeting it after a moment of hesitation. “I was... embarrassed.” He frowns, his voice muted. “Ashamed, for almost having endangered you so wilfully.” His body shifts closer to Lavellan's, almost absently. “I was sure — any day now — you would finally see me for what I am: the fractured husk of man.”

Lavellan frowns, making a sound of protest, but Dorian shakes his head, shushing him. “When you shared the origin of your vallaslin with me, and so much more, something so unbelievably intimate, I—“ Dorian's voice breaks off, his gaze warm but pained. “I was afraid, cowed by your bravery. Tevinter taught me early on not to long for a lasting relationship, and it seemed only logical—“ He trails off again, frustrated with himself. “It seemed only logical, inevitable almost, that you would leave me, once you realised this.”

Trust Dorian to lash out, to push him away instead of voicing any of this. Dorian's obvious pain does little to soothe the pinpricks of hurt in his chest. “Why don't you trust me anymore?” Lavellan asks, hating how small his voice is, and he chooses the blackness of his eyelids, instead of seeing whatever expression will claim Dorian's face.

Hands latch onto his face, cradling him firmly, almost rigidly, and Dorian's voice is sharp and sudden, like a whip, making Lavellan flinch. “ _No_ , amatus, please open your eyes. Look at me, please.”

Lavellan does, hesitantly, and Dorian looks like he's suffering an open, bleeding wound, the mournful line of his mouth opened slightly.

“I trust you, of course I do.” Dorian's voice is rough, desperate, but Lavellan can't quite suppress the doubtful twist that steals over his lips in reaction.

“What's that book for, then?” Lavellan can't help but ask mulishly, choosing the lesser of the two hurts.

The hold on his face turns into a caress, fingers stroking gently over his cheeks. For a beat Dorian's lips twitch into a small smile. “I trust you, but not the dragon blood that is winding through your body.”

Lavellan blinks at him slowly, and Dorian presses a quick, short kiss onto his nose. “I worry about you, about what could happen if its power overwhelms you. The gruesome stories Cassandra has told me, the harrowing images the book paints of the consequences...” Dorian trails off, a shudder running through him.

That... that never crossed Lavellan's mind. He feels like such a fool, for not even considering that Dorian was trying to help him. He stares down at Dorian's chin, frowning. 

A finger strokes gently over his downturned lips, and Lavellan meets Dorian's eyes again.

“I shouldn't have reacted the way I did when it vanished. I just... I was so sure that you had noticed the book, and decided that you would rather be rid of it, pretend to be ignorant of its existence, than listen to my concerns. Obviously, I could not have been more wrong with my assumption.” Dorian huffs, a quiet, exasperated sound. 

Dorian's words bat away the needles inside of his chest, but there's still one that is bothering him, piercing his heart. “And now?” Lavellan asks carefully. “Do you still think that I will kick you out of my life any day now?”

A small, hesitant smile steals over Dorian's lips. “It seems that I have been blind to many things. Now... Now I cannot help but believe that you have seen me for what I am for a long while already.” Dorian's smile turns secretive, his voice thickening. “Hope is a rather intoxicating thing, isn't it?”

Lavellan closes his eyes for a moment, a wide grin stretching his lips. He leans forward then, pressing his mouth against the mole underneath Dorian's eye. “You are a bit of a dramatic ass sometimes,” he grumbles against Dorian's skin, something heady and cleansing rushing through him, making him shiver.

A huff of breath against his ear, and Dorian says evenly, “I resent this accusation, but I will not deny it.”

The ache inside of his chest eases, and Lavellan presses his forehead against Dorian's temple, breathing him in.

If Dorian is in such a sharing mood right now, maybe he could finally get an answer to something else. “You never told me what that Scipio woman said to you all those weeks ago, to make you cause a 'diplomatic incident' with the Ferelden King.” _To make you lose control of yourself so badly that I tried to intervene with your drinking habit, ending with you leaving me._ He doesn't say the rest, but the unsaid words still hang heavily between them.

Dorian stiffens, withdrawing enough until they are looking at each other again. He tilts his head, his eyes dark, studying Lavellan intensely. “I did not think that you would even remember her name, much less her existence,” he says finally, cautiously.

When Lavellan remains silent, one corner of Dorian's mouth curls upwards. He draws Lavellan's hand up to his face, pressing a kiss to it, a spark in his eyes. “I will not repeat her words, and if I have any say in the matter, your sensitive ears will never be subjected to such loathsome drivel,” he promises, voice firm and smooth.

“So you are the one defending my honour, is that it?” Despite the disappointment in the non-answer, Lavellan grins slightly, hoping that his ears aren't flushing too noticeably.

Dorian nods, mirth in his eyes. “It's a heavy cross to bear, but somebody has to do it.”

Almost immediately his expressions sobers once more, his eyes staring at something above Lavellan's shoulder. “Whenever I reach out to Tevinter, I only end up rewarded with disappointment.” Dorian swallows visibly, all but whispering, “I cannot help but wonder... is there any hope left for a reformation? Will there ever be anything worthwhile from Tevinter that will last?”

Lavellan tightens his hold on Dorian's hand, waiting until their eyes meet again. “There's you,” he says quietly, hesitantly raising one corner of his mouth.

The deep lines on Dorian's face soften.

Lavellan moves then, his upper body pressing against Dorian's, until Dorian relents, blinking up at him.

Unsure.

 _We are done hurting because of unspoken words_ , Lavellan decides firmly, and he manages a small smile.

Dorian lets himself fall onto his back, and Lavellan rolls on top him, pressing himself between Dorian's parting legs.

The blanket slides from the bed, forgotten, their hands still entwined next to them. 

Lavellan cups Dorian's face with his other hand, mimicking Dorian's earlier action. He arranges himself on the familiar muscles underneath him, keeping himself raised above Dorian, leaning closer. 

Until all they can see is each other.

Lavellan keeps the smile on his lips, and his voice low, caressing Dorian's face. “You do hurt me, sometimes,” he says softly, and Dorian tenses at the reminder.

Dorian's eyes close, pressing shut tightly. He tries to turn his head away, but Lavellan will not allow it, keeps stroking, gently pressing at the skin on his face until Dorian's eyes open again.

Unnaturally bright, wetness at the corners.

The smile on Lavellan's mouth falters, and he swallows, almost dropping the topic entirely. “But you also give me the strength to keep going. You— you make it all worth it.” He presses hard against Dorian's hand in his, hoping that Dorian will know that he is talking about the Anchor, the rifts, Corypheus, _war_.

Everything. 

Lavellan says, conviction in his voice, “I can't promise you to never walk out on you again, when you lash out to hurt me, but I will never regret giving myself to you.”

It's Dorian's turn to smile shakily. One of his legs moves behind Lavellan's back, pressing down against his tailbone, pressing them closer still.

Dorian's palm is warm against Lavellan's cheek, a thumb stroking over his lips once. Then the palm moves to his neck, fingers taking hold of it in a firm grip.

“I'm sorry,” Lavellan says quietly, his voice rough. “I know that it's hard for you, that...“ He swallows again, the words awkward on his tongue. “...that the withdrawal is exhausting, and something you have to fight with every day...” He trails off, unsure, when Dorian shakes his head.

But the smile still on his lips, the softness finding its way back to the edges of Dorian's eyes keep Lavellan calm, keep him from tensing up.

Fingers scratch gently at the skin on his neck, and a pleasant shudder travels through Lavellan's body.

“I apologise for my behaviour,” Dorian murmurs. “I was wrong to question your feelings for me, after all that we have been through, and... you are enduring much more than me.” He tilts his head slightly, seemingly considering his next words carefully. “Both physically _and_ mentally.”

Lavellan does tense now, looking away from Dorian's knowing eyes. The fingers on his neck move again, in slow and deliberate circles, until Lavellan's eyes move back to Dorian's face.

The soft, even smile on his lips is a wonderful sight, but it doesn't make Lavellan relax.

“You are more than just a body wielding a weapon,” Dorian says, and Lavellan knows better than to avert his gaze again. “There is no shame in having to recover, in taking time to get yourself back onto your feet.” 

Lavellan swallows past the lump in his throat, blinking.

Dorian chuckles softly then, tilting his head at Lavellan. “Or maybe I should say 'onto your naked feet'?” he muses, almost grinning now, no painful lines left on his face.

Lavellan kisses his smiling mouth, unable to resist it for any longer. 

Warm, familiar lips against his. 

Warm, familiar eyes all that he can see.

He keeps the kiss simple, short, withdrawing again after another beat. His lips have taken on the same wide stretch that is decorating Dorian's.

“Don't hide it from me, when the Anchor pains you,” Dorian says quietly, and his fingers, still holding onto the hand bearing the mark, tighten.

Lavellan tilts his head.

Dorian chuckles again. “You are not nearly as inconspicuous as you think you are,” he says softly. “We still do not know how it affects your body, and we will have to be all the more attentive of any changes to it.”

“I guess you are right.” Lavellan sighs heavily, knowing better than to try to argue with Dorian on this. He looks at him through lowered eyelashes then, one corner of his mouth raised. “But only if you stop hiding your fears from me, and stop pretending that you are not hurting because of the withdrawal.”

One of Dorian's eyebrows moves upwards, and Lavellan's index finger follows it, tapping at it until it moves down again. 

“Don't even try,” Lavellan murmurs, amused. “You are very jittery when it's really bad.” 

Dorian snorts, his voice turning haughty. “I hereby forbid you from associating the word 'jittery' with me in any context ever again.”

Lavellan doesn't say anything. Instead, he moves his thumb and forefinger down, pulling gently at one corner of Dorian's moustache, until he relents with a roll of his eyes. “Fine. You win, you barbarian.” Then, softer, “On both accounts.”

Humming, Lavellan strokes over the coarse black hairs above Dorian's mouth, trying to make both sides look even again.

He only ends up making it worse, the side that he messed with now helplessly ruffled. Lavellan gives up, cupping Dorian's face again. The amused glint in Dorian's eyes tells him that Dorian is well aware of it.

“I know that you have been sleeping badly since the incident with the Despair Demon,” Dorian says quietly.

Lavellan grimaces slightly. Then he sighs, before he says evenly, without an accusation, “You've been having just as many problems getting enough sleep.”

Dorian hums, a rueful tilt to his mouth.

And one of the reasons for it was probably Dorian's worry about the unpredictable power resting inside of him. Maybe a worry that he can ease. Lavellan looks into Dorian's warm eyes again. “I won't call on the dragon blood until I'm feeling better.” A quick, unhappy twitch at one corner of Dorian's lips, and Lavellan says quickly, “I won't call on it at all until I'm back at full strength, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says quietly, pressing a lingering kiss onto Lavellan's mouth.

They stay like this for a while, just looking at each other, sometimes moving their hands to touch, lazily, without a concrete intention behind it.

Lavellan exhales, thumb stroking over Dorian's cheek. “We need to talk more often.” No more ignoring problems until they have grown into unavoidable beasts.

A thoughtful sound. “I feel as if I should have been the one to point that out, being the more insightful one and all that,” Dorian says, a spark in his eyes.

Lavellan pretends that he hasn't spoken, continues with a raised eyebrow, “We are both stubborn fools.” He laughs then, softly, shaking his head.

A nail drags over his neck, a slow, delicious movement, and Lavellan whines.

“I, for one,” Dorian drawls, his tone low and heavy, making Lavellan blink slowly at him. “Prefer the title of 'stubborn genius', if it is all the same to you.” Dorian's chin is tilted upwards slightly, familiar, endearing lines at his eyes, dimples on his cheeks.

Lavellan snorts, and Dorian hums in reaction, pleased with himself.

With a tired sigh, Lavellan lets himself fall onto Dorian completely. When that gets him a loud exhale, and grumbled complaining, he hides his smirk in the expensive material covering Dorian's shoulders.

Dorian's hand moves up to Lavellan's hair, brushing over it. “I will speak with Sera, try to steer her away from playing such a joke on us again.” 

Lavellan groans. He presses his face into Dorian's shoulder, shaking his head.

A questioning sound, fingers tugging at his hair, but Lavellan refuses to leave his hiding place.

Sera's face flashes before his eyes, friendly mischief turning to shocked surprise quickly. Ending in hurt bitterness and stubborn regret. Lavellan bites onto his bottom lip, shaking his head again, turning it so that his words doesn't end up muffled. “I was an ass to her.”

The hand on his hair resumes stroking over it.

They are both silent for a moment.

“Just tell her that she should prepare herself, because our revenge will be terrible and...” He stops, frowning.

“Imminent?” prompts Dorian, sounding thoughtful.

Lavellan pushes himself up on his right arm again, looking down at Dorian, at the warm glow in his eyes.

“Terrible and imminent,” he repeats, nodding slowly.

Dorian shakes his head, still smiling. “To be completely honest, I don't think that I want to become involved in this.”

Lavellan pokes the side of his head. “Oh no,” he sing-songs, chuckling. “She was your friend first, and that means you are already involved, if you want to or not.”

Dorian huffs, his lips turning down in an exaggerated pout.

The smile stretching Lavellan's lips is actually beginning to make them ache a bit, but it only ends up widening now.

“And don't you forget,” Lavellan whispers, moving his face closer to Dorian's again.

The fake pout leaves Dorian's lips, and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“We are in this together,” Lavellan promises, tightening his hold on Dorian's hand.

The smile taking over Dorian's lips makes the ache in his chest vanish for good, almost instantly.

They make up for the loneliness they've endured during the last two nights, curling together closely, touching, holding.


	3. Chapter 3

The _Storm Coast_ is just as wet and windy as Lavellan remembered it. He huddles deeper into the heavy material at his throat, even though he knows it won't be long until the rain finds its way into every crevice of his armor.

Next to him, Dorian shudders dramatically, his arms crossed over his chest, posture bowed slightly. His hair is already plastered to his head, his lips and moustache both turned down at the corners.

Lavellan probably shouldn't tell him that he looks adorable like this. 

Behind them, Blackwall chuckles at something Varric just said, and Dorian's eyes flicker to them for a moment, before settling ahead again.

“I'm actually surprised you chose Blackwall to accompany us,” he says, voice indifferent, but it's easy to recognise the glint of curiosity in his eyes, when you know what you are looking for.

Lavellan chuckles, raising an eyebrow at him. “There's supposed to be Grey Wardens around here somewhere, so the choice was rather easy.” His lips twitch. “And you pretty much demanded that I take another warrior with us, in case you've already forgotten.”

Dorian sniffs, but one corner of his mouth is turned upwards slightly. “I merely _suggested_ that another front row fighter would be advisable, considering your... condition.”

The smile leaves Lavellan's lips again. 

It took much arguing, and some coaxing, for his advisors to finally agree to let him head out again, though they were obviously not happy with it.

But Skyhold's stone walls became too stifling, closing in on him, after weeks trapped inside of them.

He won't tell Dorian that the greatsword on his back feels heavier than before, that his armor seems to be dragging him down with every step that he takes. That with the massive boots covering his feet, he feels like he'll lose the ground underneath him any moment now. 

Instead, Lavellan snorts. “You keep telling yourself that.” He shakes his head slightly. “I'm _fine_.”

Dorian bumps into him then, and Lavellan almost falls flat onto his face. After straightening, an indignant noise falls from his lips, followed by, “What the—“

“You keep telling yourself that,” Dorian sing-songs back at him, already a few steps ahead. He hasn't even stopped moving, isn't even looking back at Lavellan.

Varric walks past him, hitting Lavellan's side with his shoulder.

 _Is everyone out to make this even harder for me than it already is?_ he wonders, annoyed.

“Chin up, Fennec. We can't have our leader looking like a sulking kid when we approach these _Hessarian_ people.” Varric chuckles, and Blackwall smiles, shaking his head slightly.

Lavellan grits his teeth, knowing himself well enough to keep his mouth shut. Any complaining from him — perfectly justified right now — would probably just end up sounding like he's whining.

 

* * *

 

They encounter a Darkspawn patrol on the way up a hill.

Lavellan has seen a few before, lone, pitiful creatures, close to caves that must have been connected to the Deep Roads somewhere.

Their appearance, skeletal, but human enough, isn't what disgusts him the most about them. It isn't their grunts and screams either, though he can't help but wonder how much of their brains are still working, when they can obviously still communicate with each other.

He evades an arrow that would have pierced his right arm, hoping that Varric's bolts will distract it quickly, before Blackwall will be close enough to engage it.

The second Darkspawn aims his sword at Lavellan's head, and he blocks it with his greatsword, his boots slipping slightly on the wet grass underneath them. He grunts, pushing back at the creature, trying not to be overwhelmed by the smell of it, rotten and _wrong_.

He hears Dorian's staff whirl, and shards of ice fly past on both sides of him, hitting the Darkspawn's chest, staggering it.

Lavellan rises his greatsword high above his head and then past it, ignoring the protesting muscles of his arms and back, almost losing his balance because of its weight.

The Darkspawn screeches, lifting its shield up in defence.

A snarl escapes Lavellan's lips, and he smashes his greatsword against the shield, putting everything behind it, the Darkspawn falling to the ground under the force of the impact.

Blackwall grunts, and a quick look shows him beheading the archer with a swift move of his sword.

Then fire blinds Lavellan, and he flinches, rising his left hand up to protect his face.

Another screech from the Darkspawn lying before him, cutting off abruptly.

Dorian's steps move closer, until he comes to a stop right next to him.

Lavellan squints at him, and Dorian tuts. “It was still twitching, amatus.” He taps at Lavellan right knee bend with the fancy headpiece of his staff until Lavellan bats it away, annoyed.

“You need to be more careful,” Dorian says, looking down at the smouldering Darkspawn at their feet, sounding for too amused for Lavellan's liking. 

_I was just checking on the others, I didn't let my guard down at all!_ Lavellan thinks indignantly, poking at the corpse with the tip of his boot, scowling.

“If you two are done flirting,” Blackwall calls to them, “Varric has spotted a Red Templar camp ahead!”

 

* * *

 

There is a Behemoth in the Red Templar camp.

Of course there is.

Lavellan is on his knees, panting, bracing himself on his greatsword. In front of him lies the last Red Templar warrior, just taken out by a bolt through his throat.

Once they are back in Skyhold, Lavellan definitely needs to be buy Varric a drink.

Smooth glass touches the side of his face, and he blinks away blood and rain, until he recognises the vial filled with red liquid that Varric is holding out for him. “You still with us?” Varric asks carefully, while Lavellan eagerly empties the liquid down his throat.

Lavellan lets the empty vial fall to the ground, wiping over his mouth with the back of his left arm, the right hand still clutched around the grip of his sword.

He tests his left leg, still sore, but usable again.

Make that two drinks.

“Never been better,” Lavellan rasps as he stands up, almost without wobbling.

Next to him, Bianca clicks rhythmically, shooting bolt after bolt. “Good, because I think Hero could use some help right now,” Varric says evenly, but the edge to it instantly focuses Lavellan's attention ahead of them.

The Behemoth chooses this moment to howl, the sound of it making Lavellan shiver. Its mutated left arm, formed like a scythe, meets Blackwall's shield with a loud clank.

There's parts of the Behemoth strewn all around them, large red crystals, broken off from its body.

 _It should go down soon_ , Lavellan thinks — hopes, really — and the grip he has on his sword tightens.

Again the steady beat of bolts leaving Bianca's frame. Most fall from the lyrium coated body of the Behemoth, but a few find their mark, where there's still flesh on it.

Over the sound of the rain beating steadily down on them, Lavellan's ears pick up Blackwall's grunt, the strain of holding his position against the beast obvious in his posture.

A ball of fire hits the head of the Behemoth, protected entirely by red lyrium, and the beast roars. It turns to Dorian, leaning heavily against a tree off to the side of the battlefield that they have made of the Red Templar camp.

Dorian looks like he got too close to the fighting quite a few times, mud scattered all over his clothing, his staff held low at his side.

The Behemoth is approaching him now, Blackwall on his knees where the beast pushed him, ignored.

Lavellan's entire body is aching.

“What do you think, Fennec, you ready to take this thing down?” Varric asks him, sounding far too cheery for the situation, and Lavellan turns to him, confused and angry. 

“I don't know how—“ he hisses, and then he spots the brightly coloured globes Varric is balancing in the hand not holding Bianca.

His eyes meet Varric's for a beat. 

They both grin.

Lavellan rotates his shoulders, his voice wry. “I was only waiting for your signal.”

Varric chuckles, drawing the arm with the elemental mines away from his body. “Consider this my signal!” he calls, before throwing them halfway over to the Behemoth, still on its slow path over to Dorian.

The first few steps hurt, but Lavellan forces his body first into a jog, then into a charge, keeps moving until he's almost on top of the mines Varric has scattered.

“Hey, you!” Lavellan shouts, raising his greatsword in front of his body, clutching the grip of it with both hands, ignoring the slight quiver to it.

The Behemoth halts, turning halfway to Lavellan, but not moving away from Dorian yet.

Lavellan draws airs into his burning lungs, shouting again, “Yeah, you! Have you always been this ugly or did the lyrium actually improve your looks?”

A sound that could be a growl comes from the monster, and finally it begins to move in Lavellan's direction.

Either it's still intelligent enough to understand his words or an aggressive warrior is just the more interesting target.

Lavellan really hopes it's the latter.

He stays in this position, ignoring the pain, smirking at the nearing Behemoth.

A blue layer shimmers into life before his eyes, raising the fine hairs on his body with the familiar feeling of its protective magic around him.

He sends a quick thought of gratitude towards Dorian, not daring to seek him out with his eyes, not with the enemy almost on top of him already.

The scythe-arm draws back, close enough to Lavellan to strike at him now.

One massive foot leaves the wet ground under them, and Lavellan tenses in anticipation, ignoring the protests of his body.

The crystallised foot comes down again, and Lavellan throws himself backwards, onto the wet grass.

But he misjudged the distance, ended up too close — the mines detonate with a loud bang that leaves his ears ringing, momentarily deaf to his surroundings, the flash of the explosion bright enough to make large spots dance across his eyes for long, horrible seconds.

The barrier around him takes to brunt force of it, collapsing into itself again.

Still reeling, Lavellan feels the ground under his left palm tremble, barely noticeable, and he rolls away from the place that he's fallen onto.

He draws himself up into a crouch, blinking viciously until the rough shape of the Behemoth becomes clearer, its weaponised arm deeply embedded into the earth very close to him.

 _Once we've made it out of this alive, Dorian is going to_ kill _me_ , Lavellan thinks, light-headed, feeling a grin stretch his lips.

The Behemoth howls again, its massive body shifting.

Its movements are slowed, seemingly disoriented. It almost would have downed him with a lucky strike.

Lavellan is still catching his breath when a volley of bolts hit the growth of its head, followed by shards of ice. None of it strikes where it would hurt, but the Behemoth roars, revealing all of its crystallised chest.

There!

Two broken off edges where before red lyrium crystals had well hidden it, high up to the right side of its chest, now show a small patch of warped, red flesh.

But he would need to get the right angle, and he's still crouched on the ground, lacking not only the space he'd need for the final blow, but also the necessary strength.

Lavellan knows what he will have to do, but he bites his bottom lip, hesitating.

He promised Dorian not to, after all, not until he has at least regained his strength.

The Behemoth paws at his head with the arm not stuck in the ground, the noises it is making growing more and more inhumane with every passing second.

 _I'll never hear the end of this_ , Lavellan sighs inwardly, and his smile turns rueful.

He closes his eyes then, concentrating, and already his body _hums_ with power, his blood thrumming with the song of the dragon contained in it.

Lavellan opens his eyes again, his greatsword now steady in one hand, the fingers of his other digging into grass and dirt. The soles of his shoes press into the ground, seeking leverage, and his back arches, muscles tensing, any previous weakness forgotten.

The head of the Behemoth turns to him, maybe sensing his movement, and Lavellan lunges himself at it.

The greatsword hits the weak-spot on its chest, sinking into the mutated body with a surprisingly wet squelch. The Behemoth stumbles backwards with the impact, the scythe-arm coming free from the ground. 

Lavellan uses his momentum, curling into himself slightly, all of his weight and strength channelled into his hands, both of them around the hilt of his sword now.

It begins to fall, taking Lavellan with it, but he meets resistance, barely even half of the greatsword in the Behemoth's chest. 

He grits his teeth, drawing on more power, feeling his cuts and wounds tingle and sting, answering his call.

His fingers around the greatsword convulse, and with a sudden jolt, it wrenches to the right, sinking deep.

Lavellan can only hopes that it is still human enough, when it comes to the placement of its heart.

They hit the ground hard, the force of it rocking through his limbs, and Lavellan almost loses the grip he has on his sword, almost toppling right over the monster's head.

But he keeps himself atop the fallen Behemoth, panting for breath, muscles tense. Keeps drawing power into himself, drawing it from his own, and the tainted blood from the monster under him. 

He will not cut off the Reaver's power until he knows that it's dead, until he knows that the others are safe, he has to hold on—

Through the connection with the Behemoth he feels the exact moment that its heart stops beating. All of its blood suddenly surges towards him in a red swirl, grasping for him, and with it he would be unstoppable, invincible, could face Corypheus right now, he would never hurt again—

Lavellan cuts the connection off with a horrified gasp, rearing back. All of the strength and power leaves him, replaced almost instantly by pain.

He feels himself fall, and then nothing.

 

* * *

 

Gentle fingers are stroking over his temples, and he blinks, head dizzy.

“Drink this,” a familiar voice urges, fingers now at his chin, cool glass pressing against his dry lips.

Dorian's concerned face comes into focus, and Lavellan drinks, pain lessening quickly.

The vial leaves his mouth, and he licks his lips, wondering how long he was out of it, why it is already so dark.

“How long,” he rasps, his eyes on Dorian.

Dorian, alive and well, with a bit of mud high up on his right cheek.

Fingers stroke over his hair again, and Lavellan realises that his head is cushioned on Dorian's lap, and that there's the thick, red material of a Templar tent over them, keeping both rain and light out.

“Only for a few minutes,” Dorian answers, and Lavellan is aware enough to see that he is holding himself back, probably keeping himself from berating Lavellan.

He rises one shivering arm to Dorian's face, scratching softly at the dried mud there. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

Dorian sighs, covering Lavellan's fingers with his own, holding them against his cheek. He smiles weakly, his voice quiet. “There is nothing to forgive. I shouldn't have made you promise something so ridiculous in the first place.” He presses a light kiss onto Lavellan's palm. “You wouldn't demand of me to stop using my magic in battle either,” he adds, a wry tilt to his mouth.

Heavy boots approach them, and then Varric appears at the opening of the tent, his voice gruff. “Is he alright?”

“Of course he is!” Dorian hisses in answer, lowering their hands, though he keeps holding onto Lavellan's.

Varric rises an eyebrow at him, before he chuckles. “Well, if you are both ready, maybe we could head back to our camp? All this red lyrium is very charming, but for some reason I rest better without corpses around me.”

He leaves them alone again, and Dorian relaxes slightly. “You _are_ okay, aren't you?” he asks Lavellan hesitantly.

There are aches all over his body, but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He nods, and Dorian sighs again, a relieved sound this time.

Lavellan studies him for a moment, the lines on his forehead, at the corners of his mouth. “I'm sorry anyway,” he says, tightening his fingers against Dorian's.

Dorian's lips curve upwards, creating new, friendlier lines on his face. His eyes are soft when he says, “It's alright. You trust me with my weapon. The least I can do is to trust you with yours.”

Lavellan swallows, remembering the tempting call of power from poisoned blood.

He manages a smile, vowing to himself that he'll train harder from now on, until he's worthy of the trust Dorian has in him.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Varric calls from outside, and they both look in the direction of his voice. “Good luck getting your sword out of that thing again, Fennec!”

“Better open your pockets now, Varric, because you are going to be five silver lighter very soon,” says Blackwall.

Dorian and Lavellan look at each other for a beat. Then Dorian snorts, shaking his head.

Lavellan smiles.

 

* * *

 

They head back to _Storm's Solitude_ , restocking their positions, warming themselves up at the fire there, and eventually getting dry in the tents.

They rest there for the night, though in the morning, with every muscle in his body protesting, Lavellan thinks they should have just gotten it over with the day before.

He pokes Dorian in the side, but only gets muffled Tevene in return. Knowing Dorian, he's probably cursing the day Lavellan was born.

He smiles slightly. Putting on his armor is a chore, despite the health potions from the day before, every movement exhausting, the material rubbing on his stinging skin.

When he leaves the tent, he feels like he has already fought dozens of battles today.

Lavellan looks at the grey sky above, getting a few raindrops into his eyes, wondering how anyone can even stand to live here.

His wandering eyes fall onto the two Inquisition soldiers, already up and about, and he swallows.

Lavellan was grateful enough to them yesterday, when they shared their meals with them, and later set up their spare tent. But he hasn't even asked how they are faring out here, in this inhospitable part of Thedas, with enemies all around them. 

Much less asked for their names.

 _Without my advisors around to hold my hand, I'm the worst leader they could have possibly chosen_ , he thinks, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

He can feel doubt and familiar darkness creeping up on him again, and he approaches the soldier closest to him before he gets lost in the rising feeling of self-pity. 

Again.

The man is looking down the cliffs on the side of the camp, overlooking the restless shore.

The armor he is wearing looks massive enough to make Lavellan grit his teeth against his aches, his own protection suddenly feeling twice as heavy as before.

Before Lavellan has the time to worry about how to start a conversation, the man turns around to him. 

Lavellan is pretty impressed by this — he hadn't tried to draw attention to himself, but the slight squelch of his boots on the wet ground had obviously been loud enough for the soldier.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” the man says, voice distorted by the helmet on his head. He presses one gloved hand to his chest, upper body tilted slightly in a bow.

Lavellan realises that if he wants to have an open conversation with this soldier, he'll have to put him at ease first.

He stretches his arms above his head, sighing loudly enough to be heard over the pattering rain. Then he lets his twinging arms fall back down to his sides, smiling, making his voice sound sleepy. “Good morning to you, too.”

The soldier blinks, his dark eyes the only thing visible underneath his helmet.

Easy questions first, Lavellan decides. 

He rotates his shoulders, ignoring the stinging this causes on the skin on his back. “Anything to report?”

The posture of the soldier eases noticeably, one hand coming up to adjust the helmet on his head, the other making a waving motion. “Nothing, Ser. Just a few Darkspawn further up showing their ugly mugs before vanishing back into their dingy cave.” He laughs. “Probably can't stand all that water outside!”

Well, there's his opening already.

He chuckles, and the chest of the soldier puffs out slightly, like he's preening a bit. “It really is...” Lavellan looks up for a moment, then he shakes his head, raindrops falling from his wet hair. “...a very special kind of weather.” 

Lavellan grins and the soldier laughs, nodding. ”It actually stop raining sometimes, if you'll believe me. And after a few hours, you even end up missing the constant noise of it, and you get restless until it starts again.”

He laughs when he sees Lavellan's doubtful expression.

Lavellan steps closer to the soldier, looking out at the sea. “How long have you two been out here?” he asks carefully, after a beat.

The soldier makes a thoughtful sound, head tilted to the side. “This is our third week here. That means next week, we'll be stationed somewhere else,” he says, sounding excited towards the end.

 _An entire month in this grey and wet hell_ , Lavellan thinks, feeling faint just considering it.

“Four weeks seems awfully long to spend...” He waves a hand, meaning the wild sea, the rain and everything else. “...here.”

“Oh, no!” the soldier says quickly, and for a moment Lavellan is afraid he was too obvious with his intentions. “The Commander sends us messages twice a week, in case we are in need of anything or want a new post.”

Lavellan hums, still unsure.

The soldier nods viciously then, gesturing with his hands. “Just yesterday we got news about our new posting in...” He falters, head turning, searching the camp. “Kanah!” he calls suddenly. “Where are we headed to next?”

The reply comes almost immediately.

“Andraste's tits, Merjon!” shouts the other soldier.

Merjon winces, and Lavellan swallows a startled laugh.

“Does that head of yours only exist so that your helmet doesn't fall off!? The letter said we're going to the Emerald Graves!” she bellows, revealing the lungs of someone used to giving orders.

If any of the others were still asleep, Lavellan shouldn't have to worry about waking them any longer. He scratches over his mouth to hide his smirk.

Merjon's shoulders have risen, and his head is tucked closer to his upper body, probably blushing hotly underneath his helmet. He coughs into his fist, voice small when he repeats, completely unnecessary, “We are going to the Emerald Graves next, Ser.”

Lavellan nods, smiling. He can only hope that it looks encouraging, and not like he's making fun of Merjon. “I think you are going to like it there.” He tilts his head slightly. “The rustling wind in the trees will probably help you over the lack of constant rain.”

Merjon guffaws, startled. Then he coughs into his fist again, squirming slightly. 

It makes Lavellan wonder just how young he is.

“I apologise for Kanah's choice of words. She doesn't mean ill by it, she's just not... very good with people.”

Lavellan nods, secretly wondering if maybe this would have been less awkward if he had talked with her instead.

“So, you two get along.” He doesn't make it a question, just a casual observation.

In the next beat, Merjon raises his chin, his posture straightening. It's as if he is an entirely different person when he says firmly, steel in his voice, “She's like a sister to me. My family. Without her, I wouldn't still be alive to serve the Inquisition.”

“I'm happy to hear that,” Lavellan says quickly, meaning it. He places his closed fist on his chest, mimicking Merjon's greeting of him earlier. “Keep looking out for each other. I— We need you and the others at your best.”

Merjon's voice almost tumbles over itself, and he bows deeply. “Of course, Inquisitor!” 

Lavellan bites his lip. This wasn't at all what he wanted to tell him, and every word feels wrong in his mouth now. He decides to flee, before Merjon realises what kind of awkward idiot he's risking his life for. 

“Thank you,” Lavellan says then, and is relieved when he _finally_ gets it right. “Look after the _Emerald Graves_ for me, it's a gorgeous place,” Lavellan adds, regretting it almost instantly, feeling his face and ears burn.

Thankfully, Merjon just keeps bowing to him, voice hasty. “Of course, Inquisitor, it will be my honour, Ser!”

Lavellan returns to the centre of the camp quickly, grateful for the cooling rain on his heated face.

A thought crosses his mind then, and he inhales shakily. Should he try to remember their names or will that just make it worse when Cullen inevitably adds them to his list of soldiers that they have lost?

He shakes his head, wanting to get rid of the thought, and of the rain, still falling onto his head. Lavellan takes a hold of the pouch hanging at his side, fingers ignoring the healing potions, searching for something else.

When he has finally found it, he grips tightly at the golden amulet in his hands — _Mercy's Crest_ — and the name sounds like a bad joke, even inside of his head.

Lavellan remembers now, why he didn't want to return here, after recruiting Bull for the Inquisition. Why he didn't want to deal with the bandits.

The _Blades of Hessarian_ had killed the scouts that they had taken hostage, just to make a point. He didn't forget about the lost scouts, one man and two women. He just— he needed time process what happened.

His first failure as the Inquisitor: If he had just been faster then, they could still be alive. And now he's going to wear the Hessarian crest and try to... what? Convince them to leave their people alone from now one? To _recruit_ them?

He clenches his teeth, stashing the amulet away again with more force than necessary. “Everybody ready?” he calls, voice harsher than he intended.

Blackwall is the first at his side, sounding concerned. “Shouldn't we wait until later, to confront the _Blades_? We don't know what will await us in their camp.”

Lavellan crosses his arms in front of his chest, remaining silent.

A yawning Varric joins them then, and Dorian follows soon after, looking sullen. Blackwall looks from Dorian to Lavellan, raising an eyebrow.

Dorian snorts, rolling his eyes. “No need to look at me. I know better than to argue with him when he is like that.”

Lavellan grits his teeth, ignoring them, and sets out.

 

* * *

 

They are standing in front of the Hessarian Camp, and the amulet is heavy around Lavellan's throat. He feels utterly ridiculous wearing it, like a fraud.

At least the two guards outside let them in as soon as they see it.

“Awfully welcoming,” Varric mumbles next to him, and Lavellan can only nod in agreement.

He's _tired_.

They enter through the high wooden gate, and behind it, the camp turns out to be more lively than he had assumed, maybe twenty people milling around in it.

Though they don't stop with their activities, their attention is very obviously on Lavellan's group.

“Why are we walking into this camp alone again?” Dorian asks quietly, his fingers tense around his staff.

Blackwall chuckles, before answering, just as quietly, “Come on, Dorian, live a bit.”

Dorian growls. “That's just it. I'd rather keep doing that, living, and this seems rather counterproductive to that ambition.”

Lavellan's eyes dart from one corner of the camp to the next, looking for weapons that are being drawn, traps, anything. Wondering if he'll get them killed here, all because of his false pride and recklessness. He breathes in deeply, and his body complains even louder over every step that he takes.

“Look,” Varric whispers. “There he is, our benevolent host.”

Lavellan follows his gaze, settling on a man seated on on a throne at the other side of the camp. He notes the two cages next to the shem, one massive mabari in each of them.

Next to him, Varric growls. “Not a good sign. Mabari kept like that? You can bet they are wild and dangerous,” he says, sounding genuinely upset, and Lavellan wonders at that.

He takes another step, and for one terrifying moment, Lavellan's left leg buckles underneath the weight of his armor.

Varric's shoulder meets his side, and Lavellan gladly leans against it for the next few steps, until the weakness passes. He hopes that nobody noticed, that nobody will take this as their cue to attack them. 

“Hawke had a mabari, remember? Clever, loyal... slobbered on everything?” Varric says, smiling.

Lavellan imagines the champion of Kirkwall, whom Varric has painted with his stories, a hero larger than life, fighting side by a side with a huge war hound. Maybe even riding into battle on it, like the most revered Dalish hunters on their halla? He's pretty sure that Varric mentioned once, how massive the mabari was. If there's a human out there who could earn the respect of such a beast, it would be Hawke. Lavellan is pretty sure that there's nobody else who has ever defeated an Arishok in single battle before.

The leader stands up, and Lavellan realises that they've already reached their destination, and that he was just successfully distracted. He glances at Varric, whose smirk only widens. Lavellan doesn't know if he wants to groan or laugh at how easily Varric played him, and so he turns his attention back to the leader. The man is an unremarkable shem, but he holds himself like an experienced warrior. Lavellan's eyes travel over his armor, looking for a weak spot, until he remembers his place.

He resists coughing, already feeling like enough of a fool. “We don't have to be enemies,” Lavellan says haltingly, and the words feel as wrong in his mouth as the amulet does around his throat.

The man laughs, and Lavellan has no trouble recognising the lust for battle in his eyes. The hatchet he carries at his side looks well-used but sharp, his armor sturdy.

Lavellan's left leg twinges and the bruises on his body seem to throb even more with it.

 _This was a mistake_ , he realises, dread churning in his stomach.

“We became enemies the very moment they dared to call you the Herald of Andraste!” the man bellows, spit flying from his lips.

There's twenty more enemies in this camp, maybe even more in the houses. If they all rush at them at once, this will become their grave. Lavellan swallows, trying to keep his breathing even. And all because he's a thick-headed idiot.

“ _I_ am the Herald of Andraste! Her will, her champion, her—“

A familiar click, followed by a thud.

Lavellan stares at the corpse of the Hassarian leader, at the bolt embedded into the middle of his forehead.

He blinks before looking at Varric with wide eyes.

Varric shrugs, sounding entirely unapologetic. “You asked for peace, and he said no. I thought I'd hurry the entire process along.” He grins then, absently patting Bianca's frame. “If I've learned one thing during my time with Hawke, it's that nothing good ever comes from letting villains explain their motivations.”

Behind them, Dorian snorts.

“Pity about the mabari, though,” Varric says quietly, looking at the two barking and growling animals, almost mad in their cages.

Blackwall shakes his head, though he sounds amused. “We should be grateful that nobody else had to die.” 

Lavellan inhales, following Blackwall's gaze to an approaching man, unarmed, looking relieved. None of them relax yet, keeping their hands ready on their weapons. Just in case.

The man bows slightly, lips stretched into a wide smile. “Your Worship, it will be an honour to serve you.”

Lavellan blinks at him. It can't possibly be this easy, right? He eyes the people around them, now animatedly talking with each other, some even laughing, his own hands tense at his sides, still waiting for them to draw their weapons.

“The Herald is very grateful for your offer. The Inquisition will call on you, when we need you,” Varric says next to him, after it becomes clear that Lavellan isn't going to answer any time soon.

The man nods, bowing again, before he returns to his people.

Lavellan feels on edge until they have left the wooden gates behind them, wariness and disbelief fighting inside of his head. Compared to this, the weakness of his body and the exhaustion that has troubled him since they set out this morning have become mere background noise.

The barking of the mabari follows them outside, until suddenly both of them fall silent in quick succession with cut off yowls. Lavellan bites the inside of his cheek against the shudder that wants to crawl up his back.

Varric sighs loudly, shaking his head.

They are quiet for a while, Lavellan in the lead. He's heading roughly in the direction of their next camp, though he's pretty sure that their way back would be shorter and easier. But turning around feels too much like he's admitting to his weakness, and he'll grit his teeth against the pain before he does anything like that.

The rain keeps falling, drenching the earth underneath their boots, turning their armor and clothing heavy with it.

Dorian snorts. “You know, I actually cannot believe that we recruited these gullible barbarians.”

Varric turns to him, his head tilted slightly. “Why not?”

Lavellan just hopes that nobody will want an explanation from him now, why he would rather add a weapon to his arsenal than to throw it away. Even if the weapon is drenched in the blood of his allies. Lavellan inhales deeply, his eyes fixed ahead, biting at his cheek until a heavy, familiar taste fills his mouth.

“Well, I feel like these days, the Inquisition is recruiting every bumbling fool who so much as asks,” Dorian says, spreading his arms in front of his chest, and shivering slightly, with the fall of the rain. “No eye for quality whatsoever,” he declares with a firm nod, his chin tilted upwards slightly.

Blackwall chuckles, and when their attention is turned to him, he looks Dorian up and down, making it slow and obvious. “I couldn't agree more with you, Dorian,” he says calmly, smirk audible in his voice.

Dorian makes an indignant noise, one of his hands pressing against his chest, his voice incredulous. “You do realise that this applies to you just as much as it does to me, don't you?”

Varric chuckles, shaking his head. “You did walk right into that one, Sparkler.”

Lavellan doesn't smile. Can't. 

He should never have left Skyhold, he realises now.

He's useless, as a leader and a warrior both.

When they finally start walking again after the silence has stretched on, he almost sighs in relief.

 

* * *

 

“The Wardens were here, but they are long gone already,” Blackwall says gruffly, after skimming over the letter he just uncovered from a hidden cache.

 _Of course we are too late_ , thinks Lavellan with a weary sigh. They always are. He bites onto his lower lip, so the words don't end up leaving his mouth.

No surprise or regret — he's far too tired for there to still be room to feel anything else.

Blackwall pockets the letter, and Dorian makes a sound of dismay. “Are you not going to share the Grey Warden gossip with us?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, huffing. “That would at least have made all this climbing and searching around worthwhile!”

Varric stops inspecting one of the crates of the small makeshift camp around them. “There could be something in there that I could use in my next part of 'Hard In Hightown,” he says, nodding eagerly. “You know that you've got to share with the class, Hero.”

Blackwall chuckles, shaking his head, before waving their interest away with one gloved hand. “It’s Grey Warden business, and not meant for any curious eyes.”

He ignores the protests from the others, his dark eyes focusing on Lavellan. “Even though this trail is already cold, we should still continue looking for their other camps,” Blackwall tells him. “They could still be around here, somewhere.”

Lavellan almost snorts. If they are still around, there will probably be only their corpses left for them to find. He shrugs with one shoulder, his voice tense and terse when he replies, “Fine.”

Lavellan trots on, tired of the sight of the deserted camp, tired of the rain thoroughly drenching him, tired of his powerless state. 

Tired of himself the most, if he's being honest.

They are silent for a while, and it takes Lavellan some time until he realises that it's not Dorian's steps directly behind him, but Blackwall's.

Are they taking turns watching over him, waiting until he unavoidably stumbles? Bitterness makes every step that he takes even more difficult than the one before, the ground slippery and unpredictable underneath his boots.

“Listen, boy,” Blackwall says, once he is close enough.

Lavellan is feeling so miserable, the condescending nickname doesn't even really register with him.

Blackwall's face is just as grim as his voice. “This is a war that you are fighting. There will be many more deaths until it is won.”

If this is his way of saying 'thank you' for bringing him along to find his Warden friends, then it's a really weird way. Lavellan's hands curl into fists at his sides.

If Blackwall notices, he doesn't care enough to stop.

“You got placed at the top of the food chain, so they are dying in your name,” he continues, still so frustratingly calm.

Lavellan takes another step, breathing through his clenched teeth.

Blackwall goes on quietly, even though Dorian and Varric have both fallen behind enough to be out of earshot already. “There are people out there fighting and dying for you right now. People, who you'll never meet, who will never appear on Cullen's precious scrolls. You will never hear about them through Leliana's network or Lady Montilyet's contacts, either.”

Breathing has become difficult, and finally Lavellan has had enough, and he hisses, “Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to _do_?” He slams his mouth shut, but it's too late, his desperation already hanging heavily between them.

Blackwall's face remains calm despite his outburst, enraging Lavellan even more.  
“I want you to realise that what you are doing is helping nobody, and will only end up with you in an early grave, and a lost war for the rest of us,” Blackwall says, voice low, his eyes hard.

Lavellan holds his stare, not even caring if he ends up stumbling over a stone now.

Blackwall's voice is grave when he says, “Don't forget the ones you have lost, but focus on the ones that are still alive, fight for _them_ , and not the ghosts haunting you.”

Finally, Lavellan notices the roughness to the words, the tense way that Blackwall is holding his arms at his sides, the deep lines marring the skin at the corners of his eyes and his forehead.

Lavellan looks at the path ahead again, waiting for the rain too cool his anger.

Blackwall sighs heavily, probably convinced that Lavellan is ignoring him.

It childish, but Lavellan leaves him thinking that while they walk side by side for a while longer. When the rage has ebbed away, replaced by wariness again, Lavellan makes a sound in the back of his throat, loud enough to catch Blackwall's attention.

Their eyes meet again, and Lavellan's voice is small, making him cringe inwardly. “Is that something you learn as a Grey Warden?”

It takes Blackwall a moment to reply. 

“No,” he finally answers, almost too quiet to be heard over the sounds of rain and sea, “That is something life has taught me.”

There's a far away look to his eyes, lost in thought or memories.

“You might be the leader, but you have competent allies and friends at your side, willing to share the burden with you,” Blackwall says, after another pause. Creases at his nose, and Lavellan can't be sure, but there might be a rueful smile hidden underneath his beard. “Don't ever be too proud to accept help.”

Lavellan accepts his words with a thoughtful nod, and they walk in almost companionable silence after that.

He thinks about nameless farmers dying with nothing but a rake in their hands and believe in their hearts. 

Mages, alone and afraid, hunted and murdered for the way that they were born.

Templars, turned into monsters because they believed and trusted in something greater than them.

Elves, trapped and wilting away in alienages.

Clans, ambushed in the arms of nature, thinking they were safe.

He inhales shakily, looking at Blackwall again out of the corner of his eyes.

And he can't help but wonder if there are just as many corpses haunting around in Blackwall's head as there are in his.

 

* * *

 

The wet stones are slippery underneath Lavellan's trembling legs, and the unfriendly coast seems to stretch unnaturally long before his eyes.

He hopes that the next camp really is just around the next hill, as Varric has claimed.

Despite Blackwall's uncomfortable words, Lavellan has recognised the truth in them.

He's the leader of the Inquisition, but he is not alone. Hasn't been alone for a long time, but he only fully realised that now.

The heavy weight that had claimed his chest eases a bit, and even his tiring body seems less like a damning fault, and more like a new beginning.

A load groan, the sounds of boots kicking against the stones they are walking on.

Apparently, Dorian has finally had enough of the _Storm Coast_.

“I loathe this place with my entire being. But in case anybody is wondering: I am fine. Fantastic, even! I have lost any feeling to my extremities, and my hair might fall out after enduring this hideous weather for so long, but I'm _fine_ ,” he says, hissing at the end of it all.

Blackwall snorts, and Varric shakes his head slightly. 

Lavellan swallows, moving his eyes ahead again.

Dorian is not finished yet. “I'm sure I'll be the most gorgeous bald man in all of Skyhold!”

“Chuckles will be crushed to hear that, Sparkler,” Varric says with a solemn nod. 

Lavellan laughs softly, almost against his will.

A mistake.

Dorian's eyes focus on him, and his frown deepens. “You,” he says, pointing at Lavellan with an accusing finger. “If you needed a mage so badly, why didn't you take Solas with you or Vivienne?”

A vague idea forms inside of Lavellan's head. He answers slowly, hesitantly, “Solas was busy, and Vivienne said that the weather here would be horrible for her complexion.”

Another indignant sound. “Those were my exact words as well. Of _both_ arguments!” Dorian calls disbelievingly, accompanied by Blackwall's and Varric's chuckling.

The idea inside of his head turns solid, and Lavellan stops moving, clutching his hands together behind his back, his eyes turning to the waves breaking on the shore.

When the others stop as well, close enough to be heard over the sounds of rain and waves, he says haltingly, “I'm sorry, I thought...” He pauses, his voice deepening - not by much, only enough for it to be noticeable. “I thought you wanted to come with me.” Lavellan looks down at his feet, plaintively kicking at the stones.

For a moment, nobody says anything, and despite the sounds of nature around them, the silence of it is almost deafening. 

Lavellan can feel his companions' eyes on him, and he tries very hard not to fidget.

Then, Dorian clears his throat. He steps closer to Lavellan, his voice soothing. “No, I... It's fine. I wanted to come with you, you are absolutely right.” 

Dorian touches Lavellan's arm, and Lavellan turns towards him, though he doesn't lift his eyes yet.

Lavellan has no idea how to get out of this again, and he tries to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

“I'm sure all this moisture will be good for my skin. And at least it's not another desert,” Dorian says after another moment, lightly stroking over Lavellan's arm, where there's only leather, and not metal.

Despite the rain steadily pattering down on them, Lavellan feels a warm shiver running down his spine

But the nice feeling is closely followed by stones of dread, settling low in his stomach. He has definitely missed the right moment to tell Dorian that he was only joking, and the feeling of alarm increases with every moment that they stay like this, with every light stroke of Dorian's fingers over the material of Lavellan's clothing. 

_Where's the next Darkspawn patrol when you need it?_ Lavellan wonders with a desperate edge to it.

Boots on the wet stones alert him to Varric's approach, but don't prepare him for the heavy slap that lands on his back.

He stumbles into Dorian's chest, Dorian's hands coming up to steady him immediately, and Lavellan turns his head to look at Varric in confusion, frowning.

Varric points a finger at him, voice stern through his smiling mouth. “I know I told you to try to be more crafty, and it warms my heart to see you take my words to heart, but—” He points again, smirking now. “You totally dropped the ball here, Fennec. Spectacularly.” He waves a hand at the both of them, still holding onto each other, and Lavellan feels his face and ears _burn_. 

Forget about Darkspawn patrols. This calls for nothing less than a High Dragon.

Varric must be able to read that thought on his face, because he has the gall to laugh.

He points at Dorian this time, who is suddenly suspiciously silent, though the grip he has on Lavellan has not changed. “I actually can't believe that you let him play you like a lute, Sparkler.” Varric shakes his head, exasperated. “He was utterly overselling it!”

Blackwall comes to stand next to them, chuckling, shaking his head while wiping at his eyes with one hand. “He's right. I'm honestly ashamed to be associated with the both of you.”

Dorian still hasn't even made a sound, and Lavellan actually considers just running into the waves crashing onto the shore next to them, to free himself from this awkward mess that he has gotten himself into.

Apparently, this is the moment when Varric finally takes pity on him. He grips Lavellan's right arm, pulling him away from Dorian, gently but firmly.

Lavellan lets himself be moved and Dorian lets him go. 

Every step they take away from Dorian is another knot in his stomach, and he bites at the inside of his cheek. This was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Varric pats him on the back, effectively regaining Lavellan's attention.

His smile is slightly conspiratorial now, voice still loud enough to be heard by the others. “There's a fine balance between kicked puppy and trampled frog. You did very nice with your posture and the tone of your voice, but the unsure stone kicking? That was overkill,” he says, his expression warm.

Next to them, Blackwall hums, nodding in agreement.

“Next time you come over, we are going to work on this, don't you worry.” Varric gives a throaty laugh, patting Lavellan on his back again. “Even Leliana won't be able to tell when you are lying once I'm done with you!” 

Lavellan smiles slightly. He chances a quick look back at Dorian's face, but he looks only thoughtful, not hurt.

Relief lightens Lavellan's steps on the slippery stones, but he can't help but wonder why Dorian's dark eyes are fixated on his back, on Varric's hand on it.

 

* * *

 

Soon after, he's wondering if maybe he got the wrong impression after all.

Dorian is moody, almost scowling, still walking behind them on his own.

Lavellan is still pretty sure that he's not really hurt, though.

They reach the camp labelled _Small Grove_ on Varric's map, and Lavellan's knees almost buckle with the relief of seeing it.

Varric nods at him once, before heading towards the soldier at the requisition table. Lavellan is grateful that he won't have to worry about organising anything, already longingly thinking about finally being out of the rain, about finally lying down.

“Absolutely not,” Dorian says suddenly next to him, his arms crossed over his chest.

Lavellan turns to him, then follows his gaze to the three tents close by the sea. He blinks, confused, his eyes moving back to Dorian.

He's drenched like everybody else, his mouth and moustache turned down in miserable lines on his face.

Lavellan makes a questioning sound, careful, still unsure about Dorian's mood.

“You might as well force me onto a death trap disguised as a boat again, if you are honestly considering asking me to sleep on top of the sea like this,” Dorian forces out between clenched teeth, a deep frown clearly visible on his forehead.

Thoughtfully, Lavellan looks back to the tents, notices now how the restless waves hitting the shore almost reach their edges. 

He nods at Dorian, who blinks at him, taken aback. Lavellan leaves him to approach the second Inquisition soldier at the edge of the camp, her red hair held in a severe ponytail.

“Inquisitor!” she greets him, when he reaches her, eyes only widening for a moment. Despite the weathered look of her face, she's probably only around Blackwall's or Varric's age. He notices the sword at her side next, her ready posture, awareness of their surroundings obvious in her stance — a seasoned warrior. Lavellan smiles at her, his hands loosely behind his back. “Greetings...” he says, trailing off, looking at her with a tilt of his head.

She blinks at him for a moment, until she realises that he is asking for her name. “Maéva de Sauveterre,” she says with a slight bow, and now it's Lavellan's turn to blink at her.

He would never have picked her for a noble, much less an Orlesian one.

Maéva chuckles, the lines on her face deepening to accompany the rough sound of it. “People are always surprised when it turns out that not every noble-born from Orlais is a mask wearing, game-playing piece of shit.” She winces slightly, almost as soon as the words have left her mouth.

Before she can even think about doing something so ridiculous as apologising to him for her honest words, he bows to her, though it's much less refined than her earlier gesture. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady de Sauveterre,” he tells her evenly, pleased when she chuckles again, her eyes sparkling. 

Apparently, Josephine's lessons in decorum weren't for nothing.

“Even though I've left that life behind me a long time ago, it's always nice to meet a young man with proper manners,” Maéva says, her tone dry.

It makes him wonder about the stories being told about him, and he coughs into his fist, glad that the rain keeps his ears from blushing a bright red. He nods towards the cave up on the cliffside close to the camp. “Problem with Darkspawn?”

She shakes her head, smiling warmly at him, obviously very aware of his attempt at distraction. “Very few. Too overrun by Deepstalkers, that cave, I think.”

Lavellan hums. “Any problems with them?”

Maéva shakes her head again, sounding amused. “Oh, nothing that a well placed strike with the sword cannot solve.” She pats the scabbard at her side, grinning at him. “I would love to try myself on that dragon that shows itself around here sometimes, though.”

A laugh startles out of him, and Lavellan realises that she has got to meet Bull, as soon as possible.

She joins him in his laughter, not upset at all by his reaction. Maéva points to their side, and when Lavellan follows her hand, he spots the other Inquisition soldier, another woman, he sees now, animatedly talking with Varric. “Ellisa always looks at me in abject horror when I suggest that.” She shakes her head again, muttering, “It's just a dragon.”

Lavellan shifts slightly, suddenly becoming aware of his heavy armor and his tired eyes again. “If we ever decide to make a move on it, I'll be sure to tell you early enough,” he promises her, meaning it. Dragons are ferocious, unpredictable enemies, and incredibly powerful — having another fighter who knows what they are doing at their side would go a long way to ensuring victory.

Maéva regards him for a moment, her expression serious. Then she grins widely, suddenly patting his shoulder, making him blink in surprise. “I knew you were a good sort, Inquisitor,” she says firmly.

Despite the rain, Lavellan knows that his ears are definitely burning now. He clears his throat again, pointing towards the tent closest to them. “Could you help me with moving this one away from the shore?” 

He hasn't heard any steps on wet stone behind him, and so he points over his shoulder, where he knows Dorian is still standing, probably looking just as miserable as before. “My friend gets sea-sick just looking at the waves,” Lavellan says with a small smile.

She moves her head to the side, following his pointing finger. Maéva makes a small sound of recognition, her eyes widening for a moment, before she schools her features again, grinning at him.

Lavellan fidgets slightly, wondering if maybe he really should ask Leliana about the stories circulating about him. About _them_.

Maéva moves towards the tent, crouching down to work one of the hooks at its corners loose from the ground. “I could call for Ellisa,“ she says, looking up at him, blinking against the raindrops on her face.

Lavellan shakes his head, moving to the first hook on the other side. “She's probably enjoying one of Varric's fantastic tales right now, wouldn't want to tear her away from it,” he calls to her, over the sound of rain and waves.

A chuckle answers him.

Once they've loosed the hooks, they grip at the edges of the tent, heaving it up. 

Lavellan grits his teeth against the weight of it, against the strain it puts on his trembling knees, aware of watchful eyes on the back of his neck.

It would be very embarrassing, if the Inquisitor got forced onto his knees by a simple tent.

They move it up to the first beginnings of grass, and he almost groans when he places it down again.

“Far enough away?” Maéva asks, coming around to his side.

He nods at her, grateful. “Thank you.” He's glad that his voice is even. “I can do the rest alone. Don't want to keep you away from the Deepstalkers too long.” Lavellan grins at her, taking the two other hooks from her hand. 

She chuckles. “Of course.” Maéva bows again — a soldier's bow this time, quick and efficient. “Rest well, Inquisitor,” she says with a smile, before moving back to her post.

Lavellan crouches down again, allowing the groan to pass his lips this time when his knees protest vehemently at the movement. With gritted teeth and aching arms he works the first hook into the wet earth.

Heavy steps approach him, and Blackwall appear at his side.

“Well, at least Dorian is not the only one completely wrapped around somebody's little finger,” he says with a raised eyebrow, mirth visible at the corners of his eyes.

Lavellan blinks up at him, and against the raindrops falling into his eyes. He frowns, a protest on the tip of his tongue — he's their leader after all, of course he wants for them to be comfortable — instead he purses his lips, turning his eyes back towards the tent. Even inside of his head the denial sounds ridiculous and empty, but it still makes his ears burn, realising that everybody seems to be well aware that there are very few things in this world that he wouldn't do for Dorian.

A chuckle, and Blackwall takes two hooks from his unresisting fingers before moving to the other side of the tent.

Despite the awkward, fluttery feeling low in his stomach, Lavellan is grateful for his help. And his silence especially.

 

* * *

 

Finally dry again, and with the warm bedding of the tent at last in his reach, Lavellan sighs in relief.

He takes their empty plates, carefully shifting them to the entrance of the tent, away from any sudden movements during the night.

Dorian is already lying down, his back to Lavellan.

He hasn't said anything while they've eaten, hasn't even complained about the sound of the waves, still loud, despite the new position of the tent, hasn't complained about the rain pattering on endlessly over their heads.

By now, Lavellan is only _relatively_ sure that Dorian wasn't hurt by his stupid attempt at a joke.

He lies down next to Dorian, slipping underneath the blanket. Hesitantly, Lavellan stretches out one hand, gently stroking over Dorian's back.

Dorian tenses under his fingers, but only for a moment, before he exhales loudly, relaxing again.

“Are you mad at me?” Lavellan asks, leaving his palm pressed against Dorian's clothing.

The reply comes immediately. “Yes.”

Lavellan smiles, relieved, hearing the pout in the word.

“Madder than when I made you wear plaidweave for a day?” he prods, letting amusement colour his words.

Dorian shudders exaggeratedly, and Lavellan feels it travel through his hand and over his arm.

With a heavy sigh, Dorian finally turns around to him.

Lavellan was right — there is a pout on his lips, but also fine lines of genuine hurt at his eyes, an almost tangible sadness to his heavy gaze.

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, Lavellan feels something sharp and cold settle in his chest. 

Before he can withdraw his arm from where it is still lying outstretched between them, Dorian grips his hand with his own. He says quietly, eyes dark, and fixated somewhere on Lavellan's throat, “I know that I wanted for you to spend more time with other people. That it had been — in fact — my idea.” Dorian chuckles, a short, unamused sound. “I guess I'm a selfish person after all.”

His eyes move up then, meeting Lavellan's for the first time in a felt eternity. Dorian moves his other hand to Lavellan's shoulder drawing him closer, before he whispers, confessing, “I want you all to myself.”

Utter relief brings the smile back to Lavellan's lips, easing the heaviness inside of his chest. “Don't worry,” he says quietly, gripping back at Dorian's hand in his. His other one moves to the back of Dorian's head, sinking into the thick hair, and Lavellan grins. “There are many parts of me that you'll never have to share with anyone else.”

When the hard lines on Dorian's face finally relax, Lavellan is unable to resist, humming thoughtfully. “Even though...”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at him, his face carefully blank.

“I'm sure there is a _very_ young and attractive man hiding under Blackwall's beard,” Lavellan says sweetly, stifling a grin.

A sound of outrage, and Dorian's eyes widen, a spark in them. “You will take that back right this instant.”

Lavellan remains silent, a smirk stretching his lips.

Dorian growls lowly before rolling himself on top of Lavellan, pinning him to the bedding with his full weight.

Feeling very pleased with his reaction, Lavellan opens his mouth, soothing word ready on the tip of his tongue. Instead he makes an undignified, shrill sound when fingers dig into his sides, mercilessly tickling away at his weak spots. Lavellan's contorts and turns, trying to escape the restless assault, unable to keep his laughter quiet. But his tired body isn't strong enough in the face of Dorian's quiet determination, unable to buck Dorian off of him.

Lavellan's voice turns breathless, giving out on him, tears running down his face from the corners of his squeezed shut eyes.

“Tone it down, kids,” Varric calls through the night, voice gruff. “The old men are trying to sleep over here!”

The fingers stop moving, and Lavellan opens his eyes again, Dorian's face blurry above him.

“I swear, it's like I'm back travelling with Hawke and the others again,” Varric says, without any heat to it, and Lavellan is barely able to pick up the words over the chaos of sounds around him — waves, rain, Maéva's chuckling accompanied by clear giggles, and his own heaving breaths. His twitching ears can pick up Blackwall's deep baritone after that, a question, but then Dorian's shoulders are shaking slightly in silent laughter, and Lavellan's focus moves back to him.

He blinks rapidly, getting rid of the annoying wetness that is affecting his sight, his arms stretched wide and useless to either side of him.

There's a dangerous smile on Dorian's lips, his eyes dark, curious lines at their corners, and at the ones of his mouth. The intense gaze wanders to Lavellan's left ear, fixating onto it, and then Dorian comes closer, slowly, teasingly, until Lavellan can feel his damp, hot breath on it.

He shudders in anticipation, waiting, body taunt underneath Dorian's.

Nothing happens.

Lavellan's breathing calms, and he's about ready to scream in frustration, sure that Dorian is enjoying playing _him_ this time.

A hot mouth on the tip of his ear, and Lavellan brings his left arm quickly up to his face, biting into the flesh of his hand, barely quick enough to stifle his load moan when teeth close on the sensitive skin there.

Dorian's body shifts then, his hips moving in slow, even circles over Lavellan's, his mouth and teeth like a brand on his ear.

Lavellan stares at the tent above them with wide eyes, unable to believe what Dorian is doing right now, with other people so close by. The teasing movements stop soon enough, both on his lower body and on his ear, and Lavellan isn't sure if he feels grateful or sad about it.

A deep chuckle, and Dorian grins at him, a hint of teeth to it. “You should see yourself right now, amatus”, he whispers, mirth deepening the dimples on his cheeks. “Your eyes are positively enormous.” Dorian's eyelids lower, his voice deepening. “Like a pair of full moons in a clear desert night.”

Lavellan frowns at him, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or a joke at his expense. At least the flush high on Dorian's cheeks, and the wild brightness of his eyes tell Lavellan that he's not the only one burning in his own skin right now.

“If I had known that you'd react like this,” Lavellan says quietly, his voice hoarse. 

Dorian makes a questioning sound, his grin softening.

Lavellan grins, his skin tingling. “I would have said that a lot sooner.”

Dorian snorts, rolling away from him.

Before Lavellan can even begin to miss his warmth, a hand on his hip makes him turn onto his side, mirroring Dorian's position. Their bodies press together closely, their legs entangled.

They look at each other, enjoying the contact without touching each other with their hands, without fuelling the need, burning low and warm in their stomachs. 

Dorian sighs quietly, placing one palm on Lavellan's neck, his eyes intense, darkening at the sight of it.

A possessive touch, and the thoughtful lines on Dorian's forehead become more prominent.

Lavellan's smile softens, not surprised that Dorian is still questioning himself, that he is still in need of assurance. He presses his hand to Dorian's chest, right above his heart, and Dorian turns blinking eyes back to him. “It's okay to be selfish sometimes,” Lavellan says quietly, into the small space between them.

A long exhale, and Dorian's lips curl upwards. He regards Lavellan with shining eyes, wrinkles at the corners of them, keeps looking at him in that way of his. 

Surprised, pleased.

_Happy._

Nobody has ever looked at Lavellan like this but Dorian, and it makes the blood rush in his ears, makes him feel giddy and powerful. Invincible in a way that makes the dark call of power that the dragon blood inside of him sometimes beckons him with pale in comparison.

He kisses Dorian softly, tangling one of his hands in Dorian's hair.

A sigh, and Dorian moves one arm around Lavellan's back, pressing them even closer together.

Inside of Dorian's mouth, their tongues touch, and Lavellan will not look away from Dorian's darkened eyes, holding his piercing gaze.

A low moan, and Dorian's tongue pushes until Lavellan retreats, separating them with a loud, wet sound.

They are both panting, Dorian's breath tickling over his damp lips.

When their hips push against each other, they both chuckle quietly, breathlessly, their arousal obvious, though neither of them makes a move to do anything about it.

Dorian's eyes are hooded, his pupils blown, and Lavellan hopes that Dorian can see the same emotions mirrored in his own, heavy eyes.

There is no doubt for him: If Dorian just keeps looking at him like this, Lavellan could spend the rest of his life in the rainy greyness of the _Storm Coast_ or between Skyhold's stifling stonewalls, and it wouldn't matter.

With Dorian looking at him like this, Lavellan is sure that he will never need for anything else ever again.


End file.
